THE 

PRAYING 
SKIPPER- 

AND    OTHER 
STORIES 

RALPH  D.  PAINE 


7"       '2^ 


THE  PRAYING  SKIPPER 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


me  not   off  in  the  time  of  old  age,  forsake   me   not   when 
strength  faileth.'" 


THE    PRAYING 
SKIPPER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

RALPH  D.  PAINE 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

THE    OUTING    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 
1906 


Copyright,  1903,  1905,  by  CHAS.  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Copyright.    1904,    by   THE   CENTURY   Co. 
Copyright,  1905,  by  THE  ODTING  PUBLISHING  Co. 
Copyright,  1906,  by  McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  Co. 


Copyright,  1906,  by  THK  OUTINO  PUBLISHING:  Co. 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 

AU  righti  reterved 


THE    OUTINO    PRESS 
DFPOSIT,    N.    Y. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PACK 

I.  THE  PRATING  SKIPPER         ....         1 

II.  A  VICTORY  UNFORESEEN     ....       45 

III.  CORPORAL  SWEENEY,  DESERTER  .         .116 

IV.  THE  LAST  PILOT  SCHOONER         .         .         .     155 
V.     THE  JADE  TEAPOT 196 

VI.  CAPTAIN  ARENDT'S  CHOICE           .         .         .225 

VII.  SURFMAN  BRAINARD'S  "  DAY  OFF  "     ,         .     259 


2132214' 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Cast  me  not  off  in  the  time  of  old  age,  forsake 

me  not  when  my  strength  faileth. "   Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"You  are  a  disgrace  to  Yale,  all  of  you."       .       45 

Jack  Hasting's  mother  cannot  find  her  boy 

in  the  crew  .....        74 

The  flight  of  Corporal  Sweeney     .          .          .118 
The  last  of  the  Albatross        .          .          .          .182 

As  he  rose  the  jagged  timber  was   hurled 

straight  at  him 286 


THE   PRAYING   SKIPPER 


I'm  not  going  to  stand  for 
this  sort  of  thing,"  angrily  pro- 
tested  young  Valentine  as  he 
shoved  the  letter  at  Port  Captain  Graham 
of  the  Palmetto  Line.  "The  old  man  may 
be  as  good  a  sailor  as  you  say  he  is,  but  it's 
high  time  we  set  him  ashore  on  a  half  -pay 
pension.  Why,  he's  making  our  service 
ridiculous.  Read  it  out  to  Mr.  Holmes." 
The  Port  Captain  fidgeted  and  awk- 
wardly wiped  his  glasses,  for  the  task  was 
unwelcome  : 

DEAR  VALENTINE:  Congratulations  on 
your  decision  to  mix  up  in  the  business  of 
the  old  company.  It  seems  a  hefty  re- 
sponsibility for  so  young  a  man,  but  blood 
will  tell.  By  the  way,  here  is  something 
for  you  to  investigate  while  the  new  broom 
is  sweeping  the  cobwebs  away.  I  went 
South  on  your  Suwannee  a  month  ago, 
and  have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  her 
captain  is  a  venerable  nuisance,  and  loose 


THE   PRAYING   SKIPPER 


I'm  not  going  to  stand  for 
this  sort  of  thing,"  angrily  pro- 
tested  young  Valentine  as  he 
shoved  the  letter  at  Port  Captain  Graham 
of  the  Palmetto  Line.  "The  old  man  may 
be  as  good  a  sailor  as  you  say  he  is,  but  it's 
high  time  we  set  him  ashore  on  a  half  -pay 
pension.  Why,  he's  making  our  service 
ridiculous.  Read  it  out  to  Mr.  Holmes." 
The  Port  Captain  fidgeted  and  awk- 
wardly wiped  his  glasses,  for  the  task  was 
unwelcome: 

DEAR  VALENTINE  :  Congratulations  on 
your  decision  to  mix  up  in  the  business  of 
the  old  company.  It  seems  a  hefty  re- 
sponsibility for  so  young  a  man,  but  blood 
will  tell.  By  the  way,  here  is  something 
for  you  to  investigate  while  the  new  broom 
is  sweeping  the  cobwebs  away.  I  went 
South  on  your  Suwannee  a  month  ago, 
and  have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  her 
captain  is  a  venerable  nuisance,  and  loose 


2  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

in  his  top  story.  He  is  a  religious  crank, 
clean  dippy  on  it,  held  prayer-meetings 
until  half  the  passengers  were  driven  on 
deck,  and  had  a  lot  of  hysterical  women 
flocking  around  him  for  two  different 
services  on  Sunday.  The  Suwannee  is  a 
gospel  ark  in  command  of  a  praying  skip- 
per, and  if  only  the  sanctified  are  going 
to  enjoy  traveling  in  her,  you  will  lose  a 
lot  of  business.  1  reckon  it's  time  the  line 
had  an  overhauling,  so  good  luck  to  you. 
Yours  as  ever, 

JIM. 

Young  Mr.  Valentine  explained  to  the 
surprised  officials: 

"The  signer  is  an  old  college  friend  of 
mine,  man  of  a  great  deal  of  influence 
here  in  New  York,  and  he  gives  the  line 
and  its  biggest,  newest  ship  this  kind  of 
a  black  eye.  And  I  have  heard  other 
rumors  to  the  same  effect.  Now  I  want 
an  explanation  from  both  you  gentlemen. 
You  know  all  about  Captain  Jesse  Ken- 
drick  of  the  Suwannee,  and  it's  your  busi- 
ness to  report  such  idiotic  performances. 
If  you  have  been  shielding  a  dottering  old 
ass,  who  is  unfit  to  go  to  sea  any  longer, 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  3 

the  sooner  the  thing  is  sifted  to  the  bottom 
the  better." 

Port  Captain  Graham  flushed  and 
twisted  his  white  mustache  with  a  fist 
like  an  oaken  billet.  He  swallowed  hard 
as  if  trying  to  keep  his  rising  steam  under 
control,  and  replied  with  a  catch  in  his 
deep  voice: 

"Mr.  Valentine,  I've  been  with  the  Pal- 
metto Line  going  on  thirty  years,  from 
the  time  when  your  father  bought  the  first 
old  side-wheeler  that  flew  the  house  flag. 
Jesse  Kendrick  was  third  under  me  in  my 
first  command  and  I  know  him  inside  out. 
A  finer  sailor  and  a  better  man  never 
rounded  Hatteras.  Are  you  going  to 
blackguard  the  ranking  skipper  afloat  in 
your  service  because  of  a  flimsy  complaint 
like  that,  without  calling  the  old  man  up 
to  the  office?  Doesn't  he  get  a  hearing? 
Why,  you've  just  now  waltzed  into  this 
company  like  a  boy  with  a  lot  of  toy 
steamboats  to  play  with,  after  loafing 
abroad  in  a  muck  of  luxury  ever  since  you 
left  your  college.  You've  never  even 
clapped  eyes  on  Captain  Kendrick." 

Mr.   Holmes,   the   General   Manager, 


4  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

was  speaking  before  Mr.  Valentine  could 
make  heated  reply.  He  was  largely  office 
bred,  and  less  outspoken  than  the  rugged 
Port  Captain: 

"As  far  as  his  religion  goes,  we  know 
that  Captain  Kendrick  doesn't  drink  a 
drop,  and  that  he  won't  ship  anything  but 
sober  men.  And  your  father  had  reason 
to  send  the  old  man  a  good  many  letters 
of  commendation  in  his  time.  Shall  I 
'phone  to  the  dock  for  Captain  Kendrick? 
He  sails  this  afternoon." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind," 
snarled  Valentine.  "I'll  do  my  own  in- 
vestigating this  time,  because  you  are  a 
bunch  of  three  old  pals,  do  you  see?" 

"But  you're  not  going  to  censure  him 
right  off  the  reel?  Good  God!  it  would 
break  the  old  man's  heart,"  exclaimed  the 
Port  Captain,  leaning  forward  in  a  blus- 
ter of  indignation.  "I'll  bet  the  morals  of 
your  friend,  Jim  What's-his-name,  need 
investigatin'  a  damn  sight  more  than  the 
righteousness  of  Jesse  Kendrick." 

Mr.  Valentine  snapped  back,  but  with 
weakening  assurance: 

"If  you  can't  be  civil,  Captain  Graham, 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  5 

there  will  be  more  than  one  reprimand  in 
this  day's  work.  I  am  the  owner  ashore, 
and  I  propose  to  be  the  boss  at  sea.  I'll 
think  it  over,  and  if  I  want  any  more  of 
your  advice,  I'll  send  for  you.  Good- 
morning." 

He  went  into  an  inner  office  and  closed 
the  door.  The  Port  Captain  glared  at  the 
barrier,  and  growled  as  he  trudged  reluc- 
tantly into  the  outer  hall,  arm  in  arm  with 
the  General  Manager. 

"That  spindle-shouldered,  under-en- 
gined  young  cub  as  the  make-believe  boss 
of  the  Palmetto  Line!  What  do  you 
think  of  it,  Holmes?  Dyin'  must  have 
come  hard  to  his  dad  when  he  took  a  last 
squint  at  the  heir  to  the  business.  This 
one  surely  needs  some  of  Jesse  Kendrick's 
spare  prayers." 

"The  young  Valentine  is  cock  of  the 
walk,"  said  the  General  Manager  slowly. 
"But  the  bantam  was  crowing  to  show  his 
authority  this  time.  Anyhow,  he  said  he 
would  think  it  over,  and  that  means  he'll 
cool  off.  Don't  say  anything  to  Kendrick 
about  it.  No  use  of  discounting  trouble 
that  may  never  come." 


6  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

But  the  two  men  had  small  acquaint- 
ance with  the  methods  of  young  Mr.  Val- 
entine. Without  letting  go  his  purpose, 
he  had  appeared  to  give  way,  because  he 
shrunk  from  pitting  his  will  against  this 
masterful  Port  Captain,  who  made  him 
feel  like  a  house  of  cards  in  a  big  wind. 
It  was  not  inconceivable  that  this  over- 
bearing old  monster  might  lay  him  across 
his  knee  and  spank  him  in  the  white  heat 
of  a  dispute.  When  he  heard  the  two 
veterans  depart,  the  new-fledged  owner 
turned  to  his  stenographer: 

"Please  take  a  letter  to  Captain  Ken- 
drick  and  mail  it  to  catch  him  at  New 
Orleans.  I  don't  want  him  storming  in 
here  to-day." 

The  gray  hair  of  the  stenographer  had 
been  a  bonny  brown  when  she  entered  the 
employ  of  the  Palmetto  Line.  As  her 
pencil  chased  his  words  down  the  pages 
of  her  notebook,  she  glanced  up  with  un- 
disguised amazement,  and  dared  to  com- 
ment when  her  task  was  done : 

"Please  pardon  me,  but  are  you  sure 
you  mean  Captain  Kendrick  of  the 
Suwannee?  You  see,  I  have  sailed  with 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  7 

him  on  several  vacation  trips.  When  he 
leads  the  services  on  board,  I  think  it  is 
because  the  passengers  like  to  hear  him 
talk;  such  manly,  honest  talk  about  the 
faith  he  lives  day  by  day.  He  reminds 
you  of  some  Old  Testament  patriarch." 

"Old  Testament  patriarchs  are  out  of 
date,"  said  Mr.  Valentine  with  evident  ir- 
ritation. "Is  there  a  conspiracy  to  boom 
the  stock  of  this  senile  old  geezer?  Reli- 
gion is  all  right  for  you  women.  I  am 
going  South  in  my  private  car  next  week, 
and  by  Jove,  I  will  just  come  home  on 
the  Suwannee  and  look  the  situation  over 
for  myself.  Mum's  the  word.  And  I 
don't  want  any  more  of  my  friends  to  be 
guying  me  about  running  a  marine  Sun- 
day-school with  a  sea-parson  in  charge. 
That  letter  ought  to  choke  him  off  coming 
back." 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 


II 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  the  Suwannee  was 
steaming  across  the  sapphire  Gulf.  Be- 
fore her  bow  flying-fish  skittered  and 
splashed  like  flights  of  shrapnel  bullets, 
on  deck  sailors  were  stretching  awnings 
fore  and  aft,  and  wind-sails  bellied  in  the 
open  hatches.  Men  in  flannels  and  wom- 
en in  trim,  white  freshness  leaned  along 
the  rail  and  watched  the  sparkling  play 
of  color  overside.  There  was  the  air  of 
a  yachting  cruise  in  these  pleasant  aspects 
of  the  day's  routine,  yet  the  season  was 
the  dead  of  winter,  and  the  Suwannee 
was  hurrying  as  fast  as  twin  screws  could 
drive  her  toward  bitter  latitudes. 

On  the  bridge  walked  to  and  fro,  with  a 
slightly  limping  gait,  a  man  of  an  unusual 
presence.  Those  who  looked  up  at  him 
from  the  deck  noted  his  uncommon  height 
and  breadth,  and  the  white  beard  that 
swept  almost  to  his  waist.  Nearer  vision 
was  needed  to  know  the  seamed  yet  mo- 
bile face,  and  the  gray  eye  that  held  an 
eager  light  as  of  strong  emotions  continu- 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  9 

ally  burning.  When  he  halted  to  speak 
to  his  first  officer,  his  voice  was  sweet  and 
vibrant : 

"I  am  going  below  for  a  little  while, 
Mr.  Parlin.  Call  me  when  you've  run 
down  your  course." 

Captain  Kendrick  went  into  his  room 
just  abaft  the  wheelhouse,  and  picked  up 
from  his  desk  a  typewritten  letter  that 
showed  marks  of  much  handling.  He 
read  it  slowly,  and  his  lip  quivered  as  it 
had  done  with  each  of  many  previous 
readings.  Seating  himself  upon  the  edge 
of  the  couch,  he  said  aloud  little  frag- 
ments of  the  letter,  taken  here  and  there 
without  sequence: 

"Astonishing  behavior  .  .  .  guilty 
of  annoyance  .  .  .  serious  complaints 
.  .  .  ridiculous  religious  display  .  .  . 
prime  of  usefulness  past  .  .  .  evi- 
dently ripe  for  retirement.  .  .  . " 

The  letter  f  ell  to  the  floor  unheeded,  as 
there  came  into  his  eyes  a  look  of  impas- 
sioned intensity  that  was  focused  ever  so 
far  beyond  the  walls  of  this  little  sea- 
cabin.  He  was  on  his  knees  and  his  head 
was  in  his  hands  as  he  murmured : 


10  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

"Cast  me  not  off  in  the  time  of  old  age, 
forsake  me  not  when  my  strength  faileth. 
.  .  .  Thy  way  is  in  the  sea,  and  Thy 
path  in  the  great  waters.  ...  I  said 
I  will  keep  my  mouth  with  a  bridle  while 
the  wicked  are  before  me.  But  it  is  also 
written  that  evening  and  morning  and  at 
noon  will  I  pray  and  cry  aloud  and  He 
shall  hear  my  voice.  .  .  .  They  have 
prepared  a  net  for  my  steps,  my  heart  is 
bowed  down.  .  .  .  But  Thou  hast  a 
mighty  arm,  strong  is  Thy  hand  and  high 
is  Thy  right  hand.  ..." 

While  Captain  Kendrick  was  voicing 
his  troubles  and  his  consolations  in  words 
wondrously  framed  by  another  strong 
man  long  ago,  the  purser  of  the  Suwannee 
was  sought  out  by  Arthur  Valentine, 
whose  manner  held  a  trace  of  uneasiness. 
He  would  not  have  confessed  it,  but  far 
back  in  the  young  ship-owner's  head  was 
the  glimmering  notion  that  a  terrier  might 
be  snapping  at  a  mastiff.  Was  this  im- 
posing figure  on  the  bridge  the  "dottering 
ass"  to  whom  he  had  smartly  dashed  off 
his  first  official  reprimand,  gloating  in  the 
chance  to  test  the  sweep  of  his  new  au- 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  II 

thority?  But  this  suspicion  now  shaped 
itself  only  in  a  growing  fear  lest  he  be 
discovered  in  such  uncomfortably  close 
quarters  with  Captain  Jesse  Kendrick. 
Mr.  Valentine  closed  the  door  of  the 
purser's  room  and  set  that  worthy  officer's 
teeth  on  edge  by  remarking : 

"Fine  morning.  I  say,  you  needn't 
bother  to  make  any  special  point  of  seat- 
ing me  at  the  captain's  table.  Fact  is,  I 
don't  want  to  be  bored.  Just  put  me  over 
at  your  table,  will  you?  And  please  tell 
nobody  who  I  am.  I  want  to  look  around 
a  bit.  The  captain  doesn't  know  that  I'm 
on  board,  I  take  it,  or  he  would  have  been 
showing  me  some  troublesome  attentions. 
So  you  need  say  nothing  to  him  about  it. 
Just  see  that  my  name  is  rubbed  off  his 
copy  of  the  passenger  list." 

The  purser  disentangled  himself  from 
a  staggering  heap  of  cargo  manifests,  and 
emphasized  his  reply  with  a  wave  of  an 
inky  finger: 

"All  right,  Mr.  Valentine,  if  those  are 
your  orders,  but  you  miss  your  guess  if 
you  think  our  skipper  is  going  to  run  after 
you  or  any  other  passenger.  He  ain't  that 


12  THE      PRAYING     SKIPPER 

kind.  But  sub  rosy  you  go  and  as  far  as 
you  like,  till  further  notice.*' 

Slightly  ruffled,  Mr.  Valentine  saun- 
tered on  deck,  where  he  fell  in  with 
Second-Officer  Peter  Carr,  who  proved 
to  be  contrastingly  voluble  and  cheerful. 
Before  the  passenger  could  ask  certain 
questions  that  were  in  his  mind,  Mr.  Carr 
flourished  an  arm  seaward,  and  began: 

"Passin'  that  bark  yonder  reminds  me 
of  a  voyage  I  sailed  as  bos'n  in  the  old 
packet  Guiding  Star,  out  o'  Liverpool 
for  Sydney.  We  was  carryin'  two  hun- 
derd  Irish  girls  as  immygrants,  an'  soon 
after  we  crossed  the  Line  they  muti- 
nied 'cause  we  refused  to  give  'em  curlin' 
irons,  an'  let  'em  waltz  with  the  sailors 
every  night  an'  twice  on  Sunday.  'Bout 
four  bells  of  the  middle  watch  pourin' 
out  o'  the  hatches  they  come  like  a  con- 
solidated female  explosion.  I  was  in  th' 
waist,  an'  fust  I  knowed  them  millions  of 
infuriated  young  angels  surged  straight 
at  poor  Peter  Carr.  Sez  I  to  myself, 
here's  too  much  of  a  good  thing  for  once, 
an'  with  that  I  makes  a  flyin'  scoot  an' 
scrambles  aloft  like  a  cat  with  a  bunch  o' 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  13 

firecrackers  belayed  to  its  spanker  boom. 
Sw-o-o-o-s-h,  the  rustle  of  them  billion  o* 
skirts  is  like  the  sound  of  a  nor'easter. 
Wh-e-e-e-e,  them  shrieks  of  disapp'inted 
rage  is  still  ringin'  in  my  ears.  I  seen  the 
poor  old  skipper  poke  his  head  out  o'  the 
companionway,  an'  so  help  me,  before  he 
had  time  to  say " 

Mr.  Carr  stopped  abruptly  and  his  ani- 
mated countenance  froze  in  horror  as  he 
saw  Captain  Kendrick  wave  a  beckoning 
hand  from  far  forward. 

"He's  got  me  again,"  muttered  the 
mate,  as  he  obeyed  the  summons  and  was 
seen  to  follow  the  cause  of  his  panic  into 
the  captain's  room. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Carr,"  said  Captain 
Kendrick,  with  a  menacing  note  in  his 
voice.  "You  have  broken  your  solemn 
promise  made  to  me  last  voyage.  Those 
same  old  gestures  told  me  you  were  climb- 
ing the  shrouds  of  the  Guiding  Star 
again.  How  often  have  I  got  to  tell  you 
that  the  Guiding  Star  packet  foundered 
a  dozen  years  before  you  went  to  sea?  You 
soft-shelled  coaster,  you  wouldn't  know 
the  equator  if  it  flew  up  and  hit  you  in  the 


14  THE     PRAYING      SKIPPER 

nose.  'When  you  were  crossing  the  Line' 
-lies,  all  lies!" 

Peter  Carr  rubbed  his  red  head  and 
looked  sheepish.  "Right  you  are,  sir.  I 
forgot,  sir,"  he  stammered.  "But  I'm  im- 
provin'.  I  can  feel  it  workin'." 

"It  isn't  only  your  speech  and  conduct 
that  need  overhauling,"  commented  Cap- 
tain Kendrick  severely,  as  he  dug  his  two 
fists  into  his  beard  and  towered  over  the 
contrite  mate.  "These  things  are  signs 
of  an  inward  state  of  spiritual  rottenness, 
and  I  intend  to  hammer  the  blessed  truth 
into  you  as  long  as  we  are  shipmates. 
Look  at  me.  Am  I  a  worse  sailor  for 
trying  to  be  what  your  mother  on  Cape 
Cod  prayed  you  might  grow  into,  when 
she  used  to  tuck  you  up  in  bed?" 

Mr.  Carr  was  as  earnest  as  ever  in  his 
turbulent  career  as  he  responded: 

"I'll  keep  in  mind  what  you  say,  sir.  If 
all  the  people  that  flies  church  colors  was 

like  you,  a sight  more  of  'em 

'ud  practice  what  they  preach.  Whoa, 
Bill,  I  didn't  mean  to  rip  out  them 
naughty  words.  I  swear  I  didn't,  sir." 

The  old  man  sighed: 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  15 

"You're  still  in  the  mire.  But  I'm  not 
done  with  you.  I'll  have  you  on  your 
knees  yet,  Peter  Carr." 

As  the  mate  rolled  forward  he  mut- 
tered: 

"He's  sometimes  kind  of  wearin',  but 
he  means  well.  An'  he's  gettin'  me  so 
tame  I'll  be  eatin'  out  of  his  hand  before 
long." 

Arthur  Valentine  was  hovering  within 
earshot,  and  he  halted  the  solemn-faced 
officer  with: 

"Sorry  you  couldn't  finish  that  bully 
yarn  of  the  Guiding  Star.  Anything  the 
matter?  How  did  you  escape  from  the 
two  hundred  angry  ladies?" 

Mr.  Carr  beamed  with  animation  as  he 
hastened  to  reply :  "Well,  as  I  was  sayin', 
the  poor  old  skipper  of  her  stuck  his  head 
on  deck,  an'  before  he  could —  Oh,  d — 
Ouch,  excuse  me.  I  bit  my  tongue.  I 
mean,  well,  I  never  did  get  down  out  of 
that  riggin',  and  that's  the  end  of  the 
yarn.  Can't  explain.  No  time  to  talk 
now." 

Valentine  was  puzzled,  and  laid  a  hand 
on  the  sleeve  of  the  fleeing  mate: 


l6  THE      PRAYING     SKIPPER 

"What  the  dickens  ails  you?  Why 
can't  you  finish  that  yarn?" 

Mr.  Carr  whipped  round  and  shouted 
with  a  noble  impulse: 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  lie  again,  so  help  me. 
The  captain's  been  laborin'  with  my  poor 
sin-streaked  soul,  and  I  passed  the  word 
to  steer  by  his  sailin'  chart.  I've  suffered 
enough  without  bein'  keel-hauled  any 
more  about  it." 

"Beg  pardon,"  smiled  Valentine.  "Now 
I  see  the  joke.  The  good  old  man  and  the 
wandering  boy.  How  nice  of  him.  Per- 
haps he  will  pray  for  me  if  I  send  up  a 
card.  Is  he  often  taken  that  way?" 

"Pretty  regular,"  grinned  the  mate  as 
he  made  good  his  retreat. 

"Was  I  right?  Well,  rather,"  thought 
Valentine.  "It's  time  I  took  hold  of 
things.  If  we  should  run  into  a  storm, 
the  old  duffer  would  be  on  his  knees  pray- 
ing for  good  weather  and  let  the  ship  go 
to  pot." 

Later  in  the  day  a  notice  posted  in  the 
"social  hall"  caught  his  roving  eye: 

"To-morrow  (Sunday)  divine  service 
will  be  held  in  the  main  saloon  at  ten 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  17 

o'clock.  As  is  customary  in  steamers  of 
this  line  when  there  is  no  clergyman 
among  the  passengers,  the  captain  will  be 
in  charge  of  this  service." 


Ill 

FOUR  bells  on  Sunday  morning  found 
the  saloon  half  filled  with  voyagers,  most 
of  whom  looked  as  if  church-going  was 
their  custom.  Sunlight  flooded  through 
the  open  ports  and  fretted  the  floor  with 
dancing  patterns  as  the  steamer  rolled 
lazily  with  the  weight  of  the  breathing 
sea.  A  warm  wind  gushed  under  the  sky- 
lights and  brought  with  it  the  thankful 
twitter  of  a  little  brown  land-bird  blown 
into  the  rigging  over  night.  If  ever  wor- 
ship were  meet  at  sea,  a  singular  aptness 
was  in  the  peace  and  brightness  of  this 
place. 

A  hymn  was  sung  and  the  captain  read 
the  morning  service  from  the  prayer- 
book.  Then  he  threw  back  his  shoulders 
without  knowing  that  he  did  so,  until  the 


l8  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

blue  uniform  coat  stretched  very  taut 
across  his  bulky  chest,  and  his  corded  hand 
gripped  a  small  Bible  that  lay  before  him. 
Something  in  his  pose  told  those  of  quick 
intuition  that  big  emotions  were  hard 
held.  They  knew  not  why,  but  this  hoary 
pillar  of  a  man  was  tugging  at  their  sym- 
pathies even  before  he  began  to  speak,  at 
first  frowningly,  then  with  a  gathering 
light  in  his  rugged  face : 

"From  time  to  time  I  have  tried  to 
make  these  shipboard  services  a  little  more 
than  the  routine  calls  for.  It  was  my  way 
of  thinking  that  when  the  Lord  has  led  a 
man  up  out  of  the  pit,  and  planted  his 
feet  on  the  Rock,  he  ought  not  to  be 
ashamed  of  it.  Perhaps  I  have  had  pride 
in  my  redemption.  But  it  seemed  to  me  a 
wonderful  thing  that  a  wicked,  drunken 
young  sailor,  with  no  mother  and  no 
home,  should  be  brought  up  with  a  round 
turn,  as  by  a  miracle  of  grace ;  that  like  a 
great  light  shining  on  the  deep  waters, 
the  new  hope  of  a  better,  manlier  life 
came  to  him ;  and  that  he  found  the  peace 
that  passeth  all  understanding.  Since 
then,  some  men  and  women  have  told  me 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  ig 

that  they  remembered  sailing  with  me 
long  after  the  voyage  was  done. 

"Now  I  can  speak  no  more  of  these 
things.  This  may  be  my  last  voyage,  and 
if  I  were  to  talk  to  you  out  of  the  fullness 
of  my  heart  it  would  be  wrong.  For  the 
Book  says,  'servants  obey  your  masters/ 
and  I  am  still  a  servant,  wearing  a  serv- 
ant's livery,  and  I  have  been  proud  to 
wear  it  for  a  good  many  years.  I  can't 
say  any  more.  Several  passengers  asked 
me  to  give  a  talk  in  connection  with  the 
morning's  service,  and  I  want  them  to 
know  that  in  disappointing  them,  my 
wishes  have  been  overruled.  Let  us  all 
thank  God  for  fair  weather  in  a  closing 
hymn." 

Arthur  Valentine  left  the  saloon  fairly 
well  pleased  with  himself,  but  inwardly 
recording  one  objection: 

"He's  pretty  well  muzzled,  but  I  wrote 
him  to  cut  out  all  his  religious  palaver  in 
public,  and  I  won't  stand  for  any  more  of 
this  nonsense  of  playing  the  martyr.  That 
goes." 

While  idling  forward  after  lunch,  he 
met  the  first-officer  coming  off  watch. 


20  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

Mischievous  fortune  thus  brought  to- 
gether a  young  man  with  an  axe  to 
grind  and  a  soured  elder  with  a  griev- 
ance. 

"So  the  captain  is  ready  to  stay  ashore," 
observed  Valentine  after  a  few  greeting 
commonplaces.  "Did  you  hear  his  queer 
speech  this  morning?  I  wonder  what  he 
was  driving  at?  A  passenger  can't  help 
being  curious  to  know." 

Mr.  Parlin  was  a  ripe  and  ruddy  pic- 
ture of  a  mariner,  passing  as  heartily 
frank  of  speech  except  among  those  who 
knew  him  well.  A  lurking  notion  that 
he  had  seen  this  young  man  in  New  York 
was  somehow  coupled  in  his  mind  with  the 
company's  head  offices,  where  an  errand 
had  called  him  before  leaving  that  port. 
As  he  studied  the  passenger  before  reply- 
ing, his  glance  was  drawn  to  the  gun-metal 
cigarette  case,  casually  produced,  whose 
face  bore  in  gold  outline  the  initials 
"A.  H.  V."  Mr.  Parlin  was  not  dull 
witted.  These  letters  stood  for  the  name 
of  the  "old  man's  son." 

The  first-officer  became  inwardly  alert 
as  he  said:  "Well,  Captain  Kendrick  is 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  21 

getting  old,  and  he  hasn't  been  right  since 
he  was  smashed  up  so  bad  three  years 
ago." 

"How  smashed?"  asked  Valentine  eag- 
erly. 

"Got  washed  into  the  scuppers  of  the 
Juanita.  They  found  him  jammed  under 
a  boat  with  his  timbers  busted  to  smither- 
eens. You  may  have  noticed  that  he 
walks  with  a  list  to  port." 

"He  didn't  break  his  head,  did  he?"  and 
Valentine  tapped  his  forehead  with  a  sig- 
nificant finger. 

"Well,  that's  not  for  me, to  say,"  and 
Mr.  Parlin  hesitated,  with  a  flutter  of  an 
eyelid;  "but  he  has  his  hobby,  and  he  sets 
all  the  sail  it'll  carry.  You  may  have  no- 
ticed it  this  morning.  But  he  was  going 
it  very  easy  then." 

"I'd  have  had  my  ship  long  before 
this,"  continued  Mr.  Parlin,  "if  the  old 
man  hadn't  put  a  black  mark  on  my 
record  in  the  main  office.  Now  that  he 
talks  of  going  out  of  the  line,  there's  no 
harm  in  my  sayin'  that  if  I'd  flopped  on 
my  knees  and  spouted  psalms  instead  of 
sticking  to  my  duties,  it  would  be  Captain 


22  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

Parlin  by  now.  Excuse  me.  I  have  some 
work  on." 

Valentine  said  to  himself  as  he  watched 
the  burly,  bow-legged  figure  lumber  to- 
ward a  main-deck  ladder: 

"Now,  there's  a  proper  sailor  for  you! 
And  this  captain — pshaw,  he  makes  me 
sick." 

At  the  same  time  Mr.  Parlin  was  think- 
ing: 

"Neatly  done.  I  put  a  nail  in  the  old 
cuss's  coffin." 

Three  days  passed  before  Captain 
Kendrick  made  a  social  appearance  on 
the  after  deck.  His  old  friends  among 
the  passengers  welcomed  his  lavish  fund 
of  stories,  some  of  them  a  trifle  heavy, 
but  all  delivered  with  beaming  good  na- 
ture, and  such  thunderous  sallies  of 
laughter  as  wagged  the  white  beard  until 
his  audience  joined  in  from  sheer  sym- 
pathy. Valentine  hung  on  the  outskirts 
for  a  little  while  and  then  preferred  to 
walk  the  deck.  He  felt  irritation  and  dis- 
gust, partly  because  he  thought  he  ought 
to  be  holding  the  center  of  the  stage,  and 
regretting  that  expediency  should  force 


THE      PRAYING     SKIPPER  23 

him  to  travel  incognito.  Wouldn't  these 
silly  folk  open  their  eyes  if  they  knew  how 
easily  he,  the  owner,  could  lay  this  childish 
old  nuisance  of  a  skipper  on  the  shelf? 
And  he  chafed  the  more  because  the  poi- 
son so  deftly  administered  by  the  first 
mate  was  working  to  confirm  all  his  head- 
long suspicions. 

Scowling  at  the  jolly  company  as  he 
passed  them,  Valentine  caught  a  new  note 
of  earnestness  in  the  captain's  voice  and 
stopped  to  listen: 

"It  may  not  be  wrong  after  all,  now 
that  you  are  all  urging  me,  and  I  will  cut 
it  short.  God  has  been  very  good  to  me, 
and  in  my  poor  way  I  try  to  bear  witness. 
And  you  may  understand  when  I  tell  you 
what  happened  in  '67  when  I  was  batter- 
ing around  the  fo'ksle  of  a  deep-water 
ship  out  of  Baltimore.  Never  will  I  for- 
get the  night  when " 

The  words  produced  an  extraordinary 
effect  upon  Valentine.  Blind  anger  seized 
him.  He  could  see  nothing  else  than  that 
the  captain  was  defying  his  written  order, 
the  passengers  abetting  him,  and  the 
whole  group  making  a  mockery  of  his 


24  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

authoritative  judgment.  He  brushed  in 
among  the  listeners,  and  shouted  in  a 
gusty  treble : 

"This  has  got  to  stop,  I  tell  you.  What 
did  I  write  you,  Captain  Kendrick,  about 
all  this  religious  tommy-rot?  I'll  show 
you  whose  orders  go  on  this  ship." 

The  company  scattered  as  if  a  bomb 
had  lit  in  the  midst  of  it  as  Captain 
Kendrick  took  two  strides,  whipped  out 
a  long  arm  and  grasped  Valentine  by  the 
shoulder: 

"No  man  gives  me  orders  on  the  deck 
of  my  ship  at  sea.  Do  you  want  to  go 
below  in  irons?  Who  are " 

"My  name  is  A.  H.  Valentine,  and  I 
threatened  to  kick  you  out  of  your  berth 
two  weeks  ago,  and  you  know  it," 
screamed  the  struggling  young  man. 
"Turn  me  loose,  I  tell  you.  Pension  be 
hanged.  Now  you  can  go  ashore  and  rot. 
I  own  this  ship  and  a  dozen  like  her.  I'll 
put  the  first  officer  in  command  to-day, 
and  it's  high  time,  too.  He  deserves  it, 
and  I  know  why  he  lost  his  promotion." 

"I  don't  care  if  you're  the  Emperor  of 
Chiny.  Put  a  stopper  on  that  tongue  of 


THE     PRAYING     SKIPPER  25 

yours,  or — "  Captain  Kendrick  checked 
his  hot  words  and  looked  at  the  agitated 
young  man  like  a  pitying  father.  "You 
don't  know  any  better,  do  you?  We'll 
talk  it  all  over  ashore.  But  not  at  sea, 
understand — not  at  sea." 

Captain  Kendrick  walked  slowly  to- 
ward his  room  without  looking  back,  and 
sent  word  for  Mr.  Parlin  to  come  to  him 
at  once.  The  mate  breezed  in  with  hearty 
salutation,  but  his  high  color  paled  a  little 
when  he  looked  squarely  at  the  captain's 
flinty  face. 

"Stand  on  your  two  feet  like  a  man, 
Mr.  Parlin,  for  you're  before  your  com- 
mander. Have  you  been  telling  lies  to  a 
passenger  named  Valentine?" 

"Didn't  know  Mr.  Valentine  was 
aboard,  sir.  Wouldn't  know  him  if  he 
was  sitting  there  in  your  chair.  Are  you 
trying  to  insult  me?" 

"Could  I  insult  a  slush-bucket?"  thun- 
dered the  captain.  "You  have  been  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Valentine.  Don't  spit  out  the 
lie  that's  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  Two 
years  ago,  I  found  you  asleep  on  watch. 
At  other  times  you  have  been  slack  and 


26  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

inefficient.  I  reported  you  every  time. 
That's  why  you've  seen  three  mates  go 
over  your  head  and  get  their  ships.  If 
I'd  had  my  way  you'd  have  been  disrated 
or  thrown  on  the  beach.  But  you  worked 
wires  ashore,  you  harpooned  me  in  the 
back,  and  you  held  your  berth  instead  of 
being  kicked  out  for  a  better  man." 

The  mate's  face  was  purple  as  he  stam- 
mered: 

"I  haven't  said  anything  against  you, 
sir." 

"If  you're  trying  to  work  up  into  the 
wind  with  Mr.  Valentine,  you  wait  until 
you  get  ashore,"  growled  the  captain. 
"This  is  my  ship  until  she  docks.  You 
can't  say  I  ever  tried  to  convert  you  to 
God.  He  doesn't  want  jelly-fish.  He 
wants  men." 

Driven  into  a  corner,  the  mate  tried  to 
take  the  aggressive  in  a  burst  of  defiance : 

"I  guess  that  what  Mr.  Valentine  says 
goes.  I'll  see  that  he  hears  my  side  of  the 
case  before  sundown." 

Mr.  Parlin  had  gone  too  far,  and  he 
knew  it  before  he  had  bitten  off  his  empty 
words.  Captain  Kendrick  jumped  to  his 


THE      PRAYING     SKIPPER  27 

feet,  and  his  beard  was  pushed  within  an 
inch  of  Mr.  Parlin's  bulbous  nose: 

"You're  disrated  now.  Mr.  Carr  takes 
your  berth  until  we  make  port.  Get 
for'ard,  you  mutinous  loafer." 

"Get  nothin'!"  yelled  Mr.  Parlin.  "I'm 
going  aft  to  see  the  real  boss." 

Two  hairy  hands  clamped  down  on  his 
shoulders,  and  he  was  swung  clear  of  the 
deck.  Then  his  heavily  shod  toes  beat  an 
intermittent  tattoo  over  the  sill  and  along 
the  planks,  as  he  was  hauled  and  shoved 
toward  his  own  room.  The  captain  shifted 
his  burden  until  the  mate  was  tucked  un- 
der one  arm,  breathless,  impotent,  trick- 
ling juicy  curses.  He  was  dumped  inside 
and  heard  the  heavy  storm-door  slam  and 
the  click  of  a  turning  key  before  he  could 
heave  himself  to  his  feet  and  hammer  the 
barricade  in  useless  rage  until  his  fists 
bled. 


28  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 


IV 

CAPTAIN  KENDRICK  had  no  more  time  to 
bother  with  such  trifles  as  the  outbreak  of 
Valentine.  Before  this  day  had  darkened 
the  sky  turned  a  dirty  yellow,  and  the 
weight  of  the  wind  was  not  enough  to 
account  for  the  greasy,  sluggish  roll  of 
the  sea.  The  barometer  needle  slid  un- 
waveringly toward  the  danger  point,  and 
after  some  uncertain  shifting,  the  wind 
hauled  to  the  northeast  and  grew  steadily 
colder.  Stripped  of  all  superfluous  gear 
on  deck,  the  Suwannee  was  licked  into 
fighting  trim,  gaunt,  streaming  and 
naked.  The  weeping  drizzle  that  fogged 
the  sky  line  changed  to  sleet,  and  soon 
after  dusk  came  blinding  snow  with  a 
great  fury  of  wind. 

When  the  captain  faced  the  storm  on 
his  quivering  bridge,  he  felt  as  if  all 
breath  and  warmth  were  instantly  blown 
out  of  him.  No  fleecy  snowflakes  these, 
but  hooting  volleys  of  icy  shot,  inces- 
santly delivered.  He  groped  along  the 
canvased  rail  in  a  choking  fight  for 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  29 

breath  until  he  found  Mr.  Carr.  They 
gasped  and  flinched  as  they  vainly  tried 
to  peer  into  the  whirling  smother. 

The  sea  rose  with  incredible  swiftness. 
Within  the  hour,  the  Suwannee  could  no 
longer  be  held  on  her  course.  Yawing 
wildly  whenever  a  vicious  onset  of  the  sea 
smashed  against  her  quarter  and  toppled 
on  deck,  the  ship  was  brought  round  and 
hove  to,  dead  into  it.  Then  the  racing  of 
her  screws  shook  her  until  it  seemed  as  if 
the  engines  would  tear  her  hull  apart,  and 
speed  was  slowed  as  much  as  the  captain 
dared. 

Mr.  Parlin  was  still  locked  in  his  state- 
room, and  as  the  deep-laden  Suwannee 
wrestled  with  the  blizzard,  Captain  Ken- 
drick  argued  in  his  mind  whether  the 
mutinous  officer  should  be  released  at  a 
time  when  all  hands  were  sorely  needed. 
The  third  officer  had  not  been  long  enough 
promoted  to  shoulder  any  grave  responsi- 
bility. In  such  a  night  as  this,  whose 
menace  was  hourly  increasing,  the  vital 
issue  was  to  safeguard  the  ship.  But  the 
captain's  manhood  rebelled  against  a 
compromise  with  his  deed  of  clean-cut 


30  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

justice.  And  rankling  in  his  heart  was 
a  damnable  phrase,  "prime  of  usefulness 
is  past."  It  helped  to  give  him  the 
strength  of  two,  now  that  the  test  had 
come,  and  he  decided  to  fight  it  through 
with  Peter  Carr. 

Before  midnight  the  cold  was  so  be- 
numbing and  deadly,  without  chance  of 
respite,  that  freezing  fast  to  the  rail  to 
which  they  clung  was  a  fate  that  threat- 
ened master  and  mate.  Each  begged  the 
other  to  seek  a  little  warmth  and  shelter, 
and  their  indomitable  wills  were  dead- 
locked time  and  again.  At  length  the 
captain  put  it  as  a  most  emphatic  com- 
mand, and  fairly  hustled  Peter  Carr  down 
the  steps  to  the  steam-heated  wheel- 
house.  When  the  mate  returned,  hot  with 
coffee  and  protestations  that  the  captain 
take  a  turn  below,  the  old  man  refused 
with  a  passionate  gesture  of  finality. 

Although  he  had  striven  to  bank  the 
fires  of  resentment,  his  thoughts  burned 
like  coals  that  callow  youth,  sitting  in 
judgment,  should  have  flung  aside  his 
faith  and  works  together  like  so  much 
trash.  But  never  for  a  moment  did  such 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  31 

introspections  relax  his  alert  understand- 
ing of  every  symptom  of  the  laboring 
tussle  between  ship  and  sea.  So  far  she 
had  come  unhurt.  Now,  once,  as  she 
climbed  wearily  and  hung  for  an  instant 
like  a  giant  see-saw,  Captain  Kendrick 
became  tensely  expectant  as  he  felt 
through  the  planking  a  strange  jarring 
break,  somewhere  down  in  her  vitals. 

Then,  instead  of  splendidly  crashing 
down  the  long  slope  into  the  hidden  wrath 
of  water,  the  Suwannee  began  to  swing 
broadside  as  if  on  a  pivot.  The  wild  im- 
pulse was  unchecked,  even  as  her  bow 
slanted  into  the  tumbling  barrier,  and 
heaving  far  down  to  port,  she  rolled  help- 
less and  exposed,  as  a  bewildered  boxer 
drops  the  guard  that  shields  his  jaw  from 
the  knock-out  blow. 

"Hard  over,  hard  over"  yelled  the  cap- 
tain down  the  tube  to  an  empty  wheel- 
house,  for  a  pallid  quartermaster  darted 
from  within,  and  scrambled  to  the  bridge, 
shouting : 

"She  won't  steer, her,  she 

won't  steer.  The  gear  has  carried  away 
below." 


32  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

With  one  look  to  windward,  the  captain 
crawled  to  the  engine-room  indicator  and 
sent  clamoring  signals  to  reverse  the  port 
and  jam  full  speed  ahead  with  the  star- 
board screw.  But  before  the  Suwannee 
could  feel  the  altered  drive  of  her  en- 
gines, so  huge  a  sea  raced  over  her  lurch- 
ing bow  that  the  port  side  of  the  bridge 
crumpled  under  the  attack  like  a  wire 
bird-cage  smashed  with  a  club.  Roaring 
aft,  the  gray  flood  ripped  a  string  of 
boats  from  their  lashings.  It  left  their 
fragments  absurdly  dangling  from  the 
twisted  davits,  and  poured  through  the 
cabin  skylights,  whose  strength  collapsed 
like  pasteboard. 

Peter  Carr  had  seen  the  danger  in  time 
to  shout  a  warning  as  he  fled  to  the  star- 
board end  of  the  bridge.  On  top  of  him 
came  the  captain,  washed  along  in  a  tangle 
of  splintered  oak  and  canvas.  The  mate 
crawled  from  beneath  and  looked  for  the 
quartermaster.  A  sodden  bundle  of  oil- 
skins was  doubled  around  a  stanchion 
almost  at  his  feet,  and  life  was  gone 
from  the  battered  features.  Instinctively 
glancing  seaward,  the  mate  noted  that 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  33 

the  Suwannee  had  responded  to  the  send 
of  her  screws,  and  was  veering  now  to 
port.  He  signaled  to  ease  her,  and  as 
she  headed  into  it  again,  he  made  a  rush 
and  dragged  the  skipper  clear.  The 
sleeted  beard  was  matted  with  blood,  but 
the  old  man  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"We've  got  to  nurse  her  along  with  the 
engines,"  he  muttered  brokenly.  "Thank 
God  for  twin  screws.  Stand  by  the  indi- 
cator. Sing  down  for  hands  to  clear  the 
wreckage,  and  overhaul  the  steering-gear. 
It  felt  to  me  like  the  rudder  went  at  the 
pintles.  But  have  'em  man  the  hand- 
wheel  aft." 

He  wiped  the  blood  from  his  eyes,  and 
strove  to  get  on  his  feet.  One  leg  gave 
way,  and  he  hauled  himself  up  by  grip- 
ping what  was  left  of  the  rail. 

"It's  gone  back  on  me  again,"  he 
groaned,  "but  it  wasn't  much  of  a  leg  at 
best.  Lend  a  hand,  and  do  as  I  tell  ye." 

Peter  Carr  passed  a  lashing  around  the 
skipper's  waist,  and  so  made  him  fast  to 
the  steel  pillar  of  the  engine-room  indi- 
cator. Now  began  the  infinitely  wary 
coaxing  of  the  ship  to  face  the  storm, 


34  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

now  with  a  thrust  of  her  port  screw,  again 
with  a  kick  of  her  starboard  screw.  It 
was  thus  she  must  be  steered,  for  word 
came  up  that  there  was  no  mending  the 
damage  this  side  of  port.  The  mate  was 
afraid  to  take  over  the  task  of  keeping 
the  ship  headed  into  the  storm,  for  this 
was  his  first  experience  in  a  twin-screw 
steamer,  yet  he  was  as  much  afraid  that 
the  skipper  might  die  if  he  left  him  where 
he  was. 

The  ship  fought  to  wrest  herself  free 
from  this  shifting  grip,  she  seemed  eager 
to  slay  herself  by  swinging  to  take  the 
seas  abeam,  but  the  man  whose  face  and 
beard  were  dappled  with  blotches  of  crim- 
son held  her  hove  to,  as  if  his  soul  had  per- 
vaded her  clanking  depths.  When  Peter 
Carr  implored  him  to  have  his  hurts  cared 
for,  the  captain  answered  with  such  shat- 
tered murmurings  as  these,  for  the  cold 
and  the  pain  were  biting  into  his  brain: 

"But  ye  shall  die  like  men,  and  fall  like 
one  of  the  princes.  .  .  .  Let  not  the 
water-flood  overflow  me,  neither  let  the 
deep  swallow  me  up.  .  .  .  Oh,  spare 
me  that  I  may  recover  strength  before  I 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  35 

go  hence  and  be  no  more.  .  .  .  Then 
they  cried  unto  the  Lord  in  their  trouble, 
and  He  saved  them  out  of  their  dis- 
tress. ..." 

Peter  Carr  was  a  much  younger  man, 
and  the  violence  of  his  exertions  had  so 
warmed  his  blood  that  he  had  much 
strength  left  in  him.  Now  and  then  he 
tugged  at  the  captain's  arm,  shouted  in 
his  ear,  tried  to  lift  him,  and  the  third 
officer,  who  had  come  from  the  task  of 
mending  matters  on  deck,  joined  the  he- 
roic struggle.  The  captain  awoke  to  chide 
them  as  if  they  were  impatient  boys,  but 
his  eyes  saw  only  the  swirling  curtain  of 
snow  ahead  and  the  great  seas  he  must 
meet  in  their  teeth.  Suddenly  he  tried  to 
stand  erect,  and  shouted  as  he  swayed: 

"Vessel  dead  ahead." 

With  the  words,  he  sent  a  signal  to  his 
engine-room,  and  the  Suwannee  shoul- 
dered the  merest  trifle  off  to  port  just  as 
a  great  gray  mass  slid  past,  so  close  that 
the  watchers  smelled  a  whiiF  of  steam. 
The  blackness  was  beginning  to  fade  out 
of  the  storm,  day  was  breaking,  and  they 
glimpsed  alongside  a  cluster  of  jackies 


36  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

toiling  in  flooding  seas  at  hawsers  lashed 
round  two  great  turret  guns.  More  than 
ever  convinced  by  this  escape  that  his  eyes 
were  needed  on  the  bridge,  Captain  Ken- 
drick  stayed  steadfast  in  his  purpose.  The 
two  officers  felt  awe  as  they  looked  at 
him,  that  he  should  have  sensed,  where 
their  eyes  could  not  see,  the  danger  they 
had  shaved  by  a  hair's  breadth.  Sometimes 
now  his  head  fell  forward,  but  the  hand  on 
the  indicator  lever  was  ever  nervously 
alive  to  feel  the  ship  and  the  raving  seas, 
and  he  was  snatching  her  from  death,  inch 
by  inch  and  hour  by  hour. 


IN  the  early  hours  of  the  storm,  Arthur 
Valentine  was  battering  like  a  shuttle- 
cock between  the  sides  of  his  berth,  sicker 
in  mind  than  in  body,  for  manifold  terrors 
had  come  to  prey  upon  him.  Without 
confidence  in  the  captain  of  the  ship,  he 
felt  that  his  own  cowardice  was  responsi- 
ble for  failure  to  act  when  the  issue  had 
been  almost  within  his  grasp.  Through 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  37 

the  dragging  hours,  as  the  ship  cried  aloud 
in  every  racking  beam  and  rivet,  or 
quaked  as  if  her  rearing  bows  had  rammed 
a  rock,  Valentine  convinced  himself  that 
the  captain  would  not  have  dared  refuse 
him  if  he  had  faced  it  out  and  insisted  that 
the  first  officer  take  command. 

"Don't  I  own  the  steamer?"  he  groaned. 
"Can't  a  man  do  what  he  pleases  with  his 
own  property?  And  I  let  myself  be 
bluffed  out  like  a  whipped  pup.  Only 
a  lunatic  would  have  defied  me.  Of 
course  he's  tucked  away  in  a  corner  try- 
ing to  pray  down  a  storm  like  this. 
What  did  Carr  teU  me?  What  did  Par- 
lin  say?" 

On  the  heels  of  these  emotions  came  the 
dreadful  instant  when  the  Suwannee  took 
aboard  the  sea  that  swept  her  bridge. 
Valentine  was  flung  out  of  his  berth  to 
the  floor  in  a  bruised  heap,  and  heard  the 
crash  of  glass  and  the  riot  of  water  which 
tumbled  solid  into  the  saloon  outside  his 
room.  Before  he  could  get  footing  his 
room  was  awash,  and  floating  luggage 
knocked  him  this  way  and  that.  He 
crawled  outside  and  collided  with  a  half- 


38  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

clad  man  who  was  wringing  his  hands  as 
he  wailed : 

"Save  yourself.  We're  sinking.  Look 
at  the  whole  Atlantic  Ocean  in  here." 

"What's  the  matter?  What's  hap- 
pened?" gasped  Valentine. 

"What's  happened?  I  heard  the  cap- 
tain had  killed  the  first  officer,  or  strung 
him  up,  or  something  awful.  And  now 
there  surely  is  hell  to  pay.  Why  don't 
somebody  come  to  our  rescue?" 

What  passed  with  him  for  duty,  even 
the  high  tide  of  heroic  impulse  in  his 
whole  life,  impelled  Valentine  to  struggle 
up  the  stairway  to  the  "social  hall"  on 
the  deck  above.  He  believed  that  the 
risk  of  being  washed  overboard  was  very 
great,  he  was  almost  certain  the  crazy 
captain  would  knock  him  down  or  shoot 
him,  but  he  was  braced  ready  to  meet  these 
things.  It  was  a  desperate  situation  de- 
manding a  desperate  remedy.  He  felt 
vague  admiration  and  pity  for  himself, 
as  he  made  ready  for  the  plunge  on 
deck.  But  a  dripping  sailor  barred  the 
way. 

"I'm  willing  to  run  the  risk,"  protested 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  39 

the  hero.  "It's  my  duty  to  save  the  ship. 
She  belongs  to  me." 

"So  does  Cape  Horn  an'  the  Statue  of 
Liberty,"  returned  the  seaman  soothingly. 
"But  you  don't  want  to  play  with  'em 
now.  They'll  keep  all  right.  Nobody 
goes  on  deck.  Them's  orders.  Just  sit 
down  an'  play  you're  a  train  of  cars.  It's 
lots  of  fun,  an'  it's  safe  an'  dry." 

Valentine  tried  to  pass  him  and  was 
thrust  back  so  violently  that  he  fell  upon 
a  comatose  passenger  stretched  on  a  set- 
tee. This  victim  sputtered  feeble  protest 
and  other  voices  were  raised.  Valentine 
noticed  now  that  several  men  and  women 
were  huddled  in  this  corner  of  the  deck- 
house, fled  from  the  desolation  below 
stairs.  One  of  them  screamed  above  the 
clamor  of  the  wind: 

"The  ship  is  all  smashed  to  pieces  and 
nobody  knows  what  to  do  next." 

"I  am  going  to  get  forward  somehow, 
and  put  the  first  officer  in  command,  if 
he's  alive,"  cried  Valentine.  "It's  life  or 
death  fbr  all  of  us,  and  my  word  must  go. 
Doesn't  this  fool  sailor  know  who  I  am?" 

Alas,  these  shivering  refugees  scented 


40  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

a  new  alarm.  The  poor  young  man  had 
gone  mad  with  fright,  and  they,  too,  tried 
to  soothe  him,  while  a  woman  of  them  sob- 
bingly  implored  the  sailor  to  take  him 
away  before  he  became  violent.  Valen- 
tine cursed  them  all,  and  clawed  his  way 
down  the  hand-rail  to  the  saloon  to  seek 
some  other  exit.  The  way  forward  was 
blocked  by  savage  men  dragging  tarpau- 
lins, and  they  kicked  him  out  of  their  path 
when  he  would  argue  with  them.  He 
splashed  back  and  forth,  like  a  rat  in 
a  trap,  falling  against  bulk-heads  and 
furniture,  or  pitched  clear  off  his  feet, 
until,  worn  out,  he  slunk  back  in  sullen 
silence  up  among  the  little  company  in 
the  deck-house  who  waited  for  they  knew 
not  what. 

So  much  of  Valentine's  purpose  had 
been  hammered  out  of  him  that  nausea 
resumed  its  sway,  and  he  clung  to  a 
cushion,  helpless  through  interminable 
hours.  When  he  was  able  to  pull  himself 
together  and  make  feeble  effort,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  pitching  of  the  steamer  were  less 
terrifying,  and  through  an  after-port  the 
daylight  gleamed.  He  dragged  himself 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  41 

to  it,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  somber  sea 
and  sky.  The  blizzard  had  passed. 

Then  strong  hands  were  thumping  on 
the  outer  door,  and  a  steward  tugged  at 
the  inside  fastenings.  In  a  flurry  of 
spray  three  burden-bearers  staggered  into 
the  room,  between  them  a  great  limp  bulk 
in  oil-skins,  whose  face  was  hidden  by  a 
sou'wester.  As  the  seamen  paused  to  veer 
ever  so  gently  around  the  corner  of  the 
hallway,  Valentine  went  close  to  the  third 
officer  who  led  the  way,  and  said  with  a 
novel  timidity  in  his  voice: 

"I  am  Mr.  Valentine,  owner  of  the  line. 
Can  you  tell  me  what  has  happened, 
please?" 

"It's  the  skipper — frozen  up,  busted 
up,  dyin'  it  looks  to  me,  sir,"  was  the 
husky  response.  "He's  brought  her 
through  the  blow  lone-handed.  I  never 
seen  another  man  afloat  as  could  ha'  done 
the  trick  he  did." 

The  young  man  trailed  after  the  stum- 
bling procession  which  turned  into  a  large 
stateroom  aft.  Before  swift  hands  had 
removed  the  boots  and  outer  garments,  a 
physician  from  among  the  passengers 


42  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

was  busy  with  hot  water  and  bandages. 
The  Irish  stewardess  was  weeping  as 
she  tried  to  help.  They  paid  no  heed  to 
Valentine,  who  returned  to  the  door- 
way as  often  as  he  was  jostled  to  one 
side. 

The  three  seamen  huddled  in  the  pas- 
sage talked  softly  among  themselves,  and 
Valentine  heard : 

"I  tink  he  give  der  first  mate  vat  vas 
comin'  to  him,  eh?  Und  if  der  skipper's 
room  vas  flooded  out,  den  Mister  Parlin 
must  been  sloshin'  round  mit  der  door 
gelocked,  most  drownded.  Goot  enough." 

"It's  sure  all  right  if  the  old  man  done 
it.  An'  him  with  two  bum  legs  to  start 
with,  buckin*  her  through  last  night. 
Him  gettin'  smashed  galley-west,  rudder 
busted — Hell's  Delight!  what  a  mess! 
He  looked  as  if  he  was  all  in  when  we 
pried  him  loose  from  them  slings  that  was 
holdin'  him  up." 

"Ask  the  doc  if  he  can  pull  him  through, 
will  you?" 

Valentine  tiptoed  in,  as  the  doctor  whis- 
pered with  a  warning  gesture : 

"I  think  so.     His  head  needs  a  good 


THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER  43 

many  stitches,  and  there  is  an  ankle  to 
set  and  some  ribs  to  mend.  But  he  will 
take  a  lot  of  killing  yet.  Come,  men,  you 
must  clear  out  of  the  hall.  He  will  be 
coming  to  presently." 

What  Valentine  heard  was  mightily  re- 
inforced by  that  which  he  saw  with  eyes 
that  were  misty  and  troubled.  Before 
him  lay  such  grim  reality  of  duty  done 
as  the  shallows  of  his  life  had  never 
touched.  Groping  in  a  welter  of  new 
thoughts,  he  made  his  way  to  the  deck  and 
went  forward  as  far  as  he  dared,  amazed 
at  sight  of  the  havoc  wrought  overnight. 
Perched  on  his  wrecked  bridge  the  figure 
of  Peter  Carr  swung  against  the  bright- 
ening sky.  He  had  learned  who  Valen- 
tine was,  and  called  down: 

"We'll  work  her  up  to  Sandy  Hook 
without  any  blisterin'  salvage  bills,  sir. 
There's  a  few  of  us  left." 

"And  these  are  the  kind  of  men  I  was 
going  to  stand  on  their  heads,"  said  Val- 
entine to  himself,  as  he  clambered  up  and 
asked  many  eager  questions.  Nor  was 
Peter  Carr  at  all  backward  in  painting 
with  vivid  word  and  gesture  the  story  of 


44  THE      PRAYING      SKIPPER 

the  night,  down  to  a  parting  shaft  of 
crafty  comment: 

"And  there's  them  that  thinks  the  old 
man  is  a  softy  an'  ought  to  be  knittin'  ti- 
dies in  a  home  for  derelict  seaf arin'  men." 

Restlessly  seeking  the  captain's  state- 
room again  and  again,  Valentine  was  de- 
nied admittance  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon. When  the  doctor  let  him  in,  the 
old  man  opened  his  eyes  and  his  weather- 
scarred  face  lightened  with  a  kindly  gleam 
of  recognition.  Valentine  flushed  and 
began  hurried  speech: 

"I  hope  you'll  forget  that  letter.  .  .  . 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do?  ...  If 
you  want  to  go  to  sea  again,  or  if  you 
don't,  or  whatever  else " 

The  doctor  raised  a  silencing  finger. 
Valentine  bent  over  to  stroke  a  bandaged 
hand  which  moved  on  the  blanket  just 
enough  to  pat  his  with  a  little  parental 
caress.  The  doctor  nudged  Valentine 
to  withdraw,  as  the  captain  whispered 
drowsily: 

"All-l's  well.  .  .  .  You  didn't  knovr 
any  better,  did  you?  ...  So  He 
bringeth  them  into  their  desired  haven." 


"You  are  a  disgrace  to  Yale,  all  of  you."" 


A  VICTORY  UNFORESEEN 


"^T^HAT'S  enough  for  to-night. 
Turn  around  and  go  home.  You 

A  are  a  disgrace  to  Yale,  all  of  you, 
and  you're  the  worst  of  a  bad  lot,  Number 
Five." 

The  Head  Coach  roared  his  convictions 
through  a  megaphone  from  the  bow  of  the 
panting  launch,  and  the  coxswain  caught 
up  the  words  and  flung  them  in  piping 
echoes  at  the  heads  of  the  eight  sullen 
oarsmen  facing  him.  The  grind  of  the 
slides  and  the  tearing  swash  of  blades 
abruptly  ceased  as  the  slim  shell  trailed 
with  dying  headway  to  the  skitter  of  the 
resting  oars.  Backs  burned  dull  red  by 
the  sun  of  long  June  days  drooped  in  re- 
laxation that  was  not  all  weariness.  John 
Hastings,  at  Number  Five,  remembered 
when  to  slip  along  the  shore;  heading 
homeward  in  the  twilight  after  pulling 
four  miles  over  the  New  London  course, 
was  the  keenest  joy  he  had  ever  known. 

45 


46  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Now,  with  the  Harvard  race  less  than  a 
week  away,  the  daily  toil  was  a  nightmare 
of  ineffective  striving.  The  pulsating 
shell  hesitated  between  strokes,  it  rolled 
without  visible  cause,  and  seemed  sen- 
tiently  to  realize  that  the  crew  was  rowing 
as  eight  men,  not  as  one. 

The  boat  circled  wide  and  the  men 
swept  it  listlessly  toward  the  lights  of  the 
Quarters  at  Gales  Ferry.  They  had  just 
undergone  the  severest  ordeal  in  all  ath- 
letic training  in  their  race  against  the 
stop  watch,  yet  if  the  work  had  been 
good  they  would  have  finished  vibrant  as 
steel  springs,  spurting  in  this  welcome 
home  stretch  like  the  sweep  of  a  hawk. 
Squatted  on  the  boathouse  float  a  little 
later,  dousing  pails  of  water  over  his 
sweating  shoulders,  Hastings  heard  the 
Stroke  growl  to  Number  Seven : 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  loafers 
back  there?" 

"I'm  not  behind,"  retorted  Seven,  with 
hair-trigger  irritability.  "The  trouble  is 
in  the  middle  of  the  boat.  Hastings  is  too 
heavy  to  row  in  form  this  year,  and  he 
seems  to  have  gone  to  pieces  in  the  last 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  47 

month.  That's  where  the  worst  break  in 
the  swing  comes.  Did  you  hear  the  Old 
Man  threaten  to  take  him  out  of  the  boat 
and  get  him  a  job  as  a  farm  hand?" 

The  Culprit  wearily  picked  himself  up 
and  dressed  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  boat- 
house,  shunning  conversation.  After  the 
training-table  supper,  the  Head  Coach 
and  his  younger  staff  of  graduate  experts, 
who  had  flocked  back  to  help  stem  the 
adverse  tide,  summoned  the  crew  into  the 
parlor  of  the  lonely  old  farmhouse.  The 
Nestor  of  Yale  rowing,  who  for  twenty 
years  had  taught  Yale  crews  how  to  win, 
leaned  against  the  battered  piano  and 
looked  at  the  ruddy  and  wholesome  young 
faces  around  him.  It  might  have  been  a 
council  about  to  weigh  matters  of  life  and 
death,  so  grave  was  the  troubled  aspect  of 
the  waiting  group,  so  stern  the  set  of  their 
leader's  bulldog  jaw. 

To-night  he  had  something  of  their 
nervous  uncertainty,  and  it  showed  in  the 
way  his  strong  fingers  played  with  the 
fringe  of  the  faded  piano  cover.  Picking 
up  the  well-worn  logbook  in  which  was 
recorded  year  by  year  the  daily  work  of 


48  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Yale  crews  from  January  to  July,  he 
turned  the  leaves  until  a  text  was  found. 
Then,  slamming  the  book  on  the  piano 
with  a  vigor  that  made  the  aged  wires 
complain,  he  said: 

"The  work  has  been  discouraging  ever 
since  you  came  to  New  London,  but  to- 
day it  was  so  bad  that  it  made  me  sick.  I 
never  saw  faster  conditions  on  this  course, 
and  yet  you  clawed  your  way  up  river 
in  twenty-two  minutes  and  ten  seconds. 
That  is  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  slower 
than  last  year's  crew.  Do  you  know  what 
this  means?  You  are  strong  enough ;  you 
have  had  plenty  of  coaching,  and  I  intend 
to  work  the  very  souls  out  of  you  to-mor- 
row. If  there  is  no  improvement — well, 
you  had  better  jump  overboard  and 
drown  yourself  after  the  race  than  to  go 
back  to  New  Haven.  No  man's  place  is 
safe  in  this  crew,  even  if  the  race  is  only 
four  days  off.  This  means  you,  Number 
Five." 

There  were  no  songs  around  the  piano, 
as  was  the  custom  in  happier  evenings,  nor 
did  the  Head  Coach  pound  the  tinkling 
yellow  keys  and  lead  the  chorus  of  "Jolly 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  49 

Boating  Weather,"  as  he  had  done  so 
many  nights  of  so  many  years  when  the 
work  had  been  satisfactory.  At  nine 
o'clock  the  Captain  called  out  gruffly: 
"All  out  for  the  walk,  fellows." 
The  squad  filed  through  the  gate  into 
the  darkness  of  the  country  lane  for  the 
end  of  the  day's  routine,  with  John  Hast- 
ings trailing  in  rear  of  the  procession.  He 
had  become  fond  of  this  nightly  ramble, 
feeling  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  every 
stone  wall,  low-roofed  farmhouse  and 
fragrant  orchard,  and  courting  the  smell 
of  the  lush  June  country  side  as  the  rarest 
of  sleeping  potions.  But  to-night  he 
strode  with  head  down,  turning  over  and 
over  in  his  mind  the  haunting  list  of  his 
sins  as  an  oarsman.  Always  with  him  of 
late,  they  had  been  driven  home  anew  by 
the  events  of  recent  hours.  He  looked  up 
at  the  quiet  sea  of  little  stars,  and  his  self- 
reproach  unconsciously  changed  to  the 
form  of  a  prayer: 

"O  Lord,  help  me  to  get  my  power  on, 
and  to  keep  my  slide  under  me.  I  never 
worked  half  so  hard,  but  I  know  I  am 
heavier  and  slower  than  I  used  to  be. 


50  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Help  me  to  stay  on  the  crew.  I  don't  ask 
it  for  my  sake,  but — but  Mother's  coming 
to  the  race,  and  this  is  my  third  year  on  the 
crew,  and  she  never  saw  a  race,  and  if  I'm 
kicked  off  now  it  will  break  her  heart.  It 
means  so  much  to  her,  and  I  am  all  she 
has.  And — and  there's  Cynthia  Wells — 
she's  coming,  too.  Oh,  it  means  every- 
thing to  me,  everything." 

Such  a  man  was  he  in  the  glory  of  his 
superbly  conditioned  strength,  such  a  boy 
in  the  narrow  limits  of  his  life's  horizon, 
bounded  in  this  crisis  by  the  Quarters, 
the  boathouse,  the  crew,  and  the  shining 
stretch  of  river ! 

The  next  morning  sparkled  with  a  cool 
breeze  from  the  Sound,  and  its  salty  tang 
was  a  tonic  after  the  sultry  days  that  had 
tugged  at  the  weights  of  all  the  men,  ex- 
cept Hastings,  until  they  were  almost 
gaunt.  When  the  crew  was  boated  for 
the  forenoon  practice,  the  exhortations 
of  the  Head  Coach  were  even  hopeful. 
But  after  he  had  sent  them  on  the  first 
stretch  at  full  speed,  even  the  blase  old 
engineer  of  the  launch  could  see  that 
things  were  going  wrong  in  the  same  old 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  51 

way.  The  emotions  of  the  Head  Coach 
were  too  large  for  words  and  with  sinister 
patience  he  made  them  row  another  spurt. 
Before  he  could  begin  to  speak,  Hastings 
knew  that  there  was  still  a  break  in  the 
swing  at  Number  Five,  and  the  confirma- 
tion came  in  almost  a  tone  of  entreaty 
from  the  launch: 

"You  are  still  behind,  Number  Five, 
while  the  rest  of  the  crew  is  swinging  bet- 
ter. Try,  for  Heaven's  sake,  to  get  your 
shoulders  on  it,  and  swing  them  up  to  the 
perpendicular  as  if  the  devil  were  after 
you.  Do  you  want  seven  other  men  to 
pull  your  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  of 
beef  and  muscle  like  so  much  freight  in 
the  boat?  I  have  told  you  these  things  a 
thousand  times,  and  you  must  hang  on  to 
them  this  time,  or  I  can't  risk  bothering 
with  you  any  more.  All  ready,  coxswain, 
steer  for  that  red  barn  across  the  river." 

"Forward  all.  G-e-t  ready.  R-o-w-w!" 
shrieked  the  coxswain. 

Within  the  first  thirty  strokes  Hastings 
felt  that  he  was  rowing  in  no  better  form 
than  before,  although  never  had  he  been 
so  grimly  determined  to  row  better. 


52  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Stung  to  the  soul  by  the  taunt  of  the 
coach,  he  threw  his  splendid  shoulders 
against  the  twelve- foot  sweep,  striving 
always  to  be  a  little  ahead  of  Number 
Six,  whose  instant  of  catch  was  sig- 
naled by  the  tell-tale  tightening  of  the 
crease  in  the  back  of  his  neck.  The  Cap- 
tain called: 

"Give  her  ten  good  ones,  and  look  out 
for  the  stroke.  It's  going  up." 

"O-n-e,  T-w-o,  Thr-e-e,  F-o-u-r, 
F-i-v-e,"  gasped  the  eight,  in  husky 
chorus  to  the  cadence  of  the  catch. 

"Slo-w  down  on  your  y-o-u-r  slides," 
yelled  the  bobbing  coxswain.  "You're 
be-h-i-n-d,  Number  Five." 

Hastings  could  have  throttled  the  cox- 
swain for  this.  He  had  heard  it  so  often 
that  it  cut  him  on  the  raw.  The  Head 
Coaeh  picked  up  the  damnable  refrain : 

"You  are  behind,  Number  Five." 

Recalling  how  once,  to  fill  an  idle  half 
hour,  he  had  enumerated  sixty-four  faults 
possible  in  rowing  a  single  stroke,  Hast- 
ings was  sure  that  in  this  spurt  he  was 
committing  all  these  and  several  as  yet 
unrecorded.  The  futility  of  his  flurried 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  53 

effort  became  maddening.  Where  was 
his  strength  going? 

The  verdict  befell  as  the  launch  steamed 
alongside,  and  a  substitute  perched  on  the 
cabin  roof  jumped  to  the  deck  at  the  beck- 
oning of  the  Head  Coach,  who  said,  with 
a  ring  of  sincere  regret: 

"I  am  afraid  I'll  have  to  try  a  change 
at  Number  Five,  to  see  whether  we  can 
patch  up  that  break.  Get  in  there,  Mat- 
thews. Better  get  out  and  take  a  rest, 
Hastings." 

The  cast-off  crawled  aboard  the  launch 
and  went  aft  to  the  cock-pit  under  the 
awnings,  where  he  could  be  alone.  Hold- 
ing himself  bravely  under  the  sympathetic 
eyes  of  his  comrades,  he  watched  the  sub- 
stitute grip  the  oar,  still  warm  from  his 
own  calloused  hands.  Nor  did  he  yet 
realize  what  had  befallen  him,  and  felt 
vague  relief  that  the  struggle  was  done. 
At  dinner  he  was  cheerful  and  flip- 
pant and  the  other  oarsmen  admired  his 
"sand." 

The  reality  began  to  overtake  him  when 
he  went  to  his  room  under  the  eaves,  and 
anxiously  asked  the  Stroke : 


54  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

"Well,  how  did  you  go  it  with  a  new 
Number  Five?" 

"A  little  better,"  replied  his  room-mate, 
with  evident  reluctance.  "The  Old  Man 
says  he  is  going  to  keep  Matthews  in  your 
seat  for  the  race.  It's  a  hard  thing  to  talk 
about,  Jack.  You  know  how  broken  up 
we  all  feel  about  it,  don't  you?  We 
know  you  tried  your  level  best,  and  your 
extra  weight  this  year  made  you  slow,  and 
you  couldn't  help  that.  Heard  from 
your  folks  lately?" 

Hastings  was  reminded  of  things  he 
had  feared  to  let  rush  into  the  foreground. 
He  had  been  too  preoccupied  to  think  of 
looking  for  mail  downstairs,  and  was 
starting  for  the  door,  when  the  Stroke 
halted  him  with: 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  brought  up 
a  couple  of  letters  for  you.  There  they 
are,  on  the  bureau." 

Hastings  recognized  his  mother's  hand- 
writing on  one  envelope,  that  of  Cynthia 
Wells  on  the  other.  He  appeared  to  hesi- 
tate which  of  them  to  open  first,  and  in 
this  hour  of  trial,  his  choice  was  swayed  by 
an  impulse  as  old  as  the  world : 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  55 

The  letter  which  he  preferred  was 
dated  on  board  the  yacht  Diana,  off  New 
Haven,  and  he  read  slowly  to  himself: 

DEAB  OLD  JACK: 

I  am  so  happy  to  be  almost  at  the  scene 
of  your  victories,  past  and  to  come.  And 
to  think  I  have  never  seen  you  row !  How 
foolish  and  inconsiderate  of  Father  to 
drag  me  abroad  so  early  two  seasons  on 
end.  But  I  am  bringing  all  the  heaped- 
up  enthusiasm  of  three  years — think  of 
that!  I  suppose  you  are  as  calm  as  blanc 
mange,  while  I  am  jabbering  rowing  at 
everybody  in  sight,  and  am  getting  really 
awfully  clever  about  strokes  and  catches 
( are  they  so  very  catching  ? ) .  Your  class- 
mate, Dickie  Munson,  is  on  board,  and  has 
been  coaching  me  up  on  the  technical  mys- 
teries, and  spinning  many  jolly  yarns 
about  you.  I  hear  you  are  to  be  elected 
captain  of  next  year's  crew,  the  very 
grandest  honor  at  Yale.  May  I  offer 
congratulations  in  advance?  I  do  so  want 
to  see  you,  and  will  be  one  of  the  worship- 
ping admirers  of  your  prowess!  Of 
course  you  will  be  busy  until  after  the 
race,  and  then  you  are  to  come  down  to  the 
Diana  as  soon  as  ever  you  can.  Don't 


56  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

forget  that  I  will  have  an  eye  on  you  all 
the  way  down  the  course. 

Yours  as  ever,  CYNTHIA. 

Hastings  tucked  this  letter  in  an  inside 
pocket  with  reverent  care,  and  without 
speaking,  sought  next  what  his  mother 
would  say: 

MY  DEAREST  BOY  : 

I  have  decided  to  come  North  by  sea, 
and  will  sail  on  the  Mohican  to-morrow. 
The  fare  is  considerably  less  than  by  rail, 
and  as  you  have  insisted  upon  paying  the 
expenses  of  my  wonderful  trip,  I  want  to 
save  you  all  I  can.  The  ship  is  due  at 
New  York  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
twenty-seventh,  the  day  before  the  race, 
and  I  plan  to  take  the  earliest  train  to 
New  London,  to  reach  there  that  night, 
if  possible.  I  have  the  address  of  the 
boarding  house  in  which  you  have  re- 
served the  nice  room  for  me,  and  you  will 
not  have  to  worry  at  all  about  having  me 
met,  as,  of  course,  you  will  not  be  able  to 
come  down  from  the  Quarters.  It  will  be 
hard  to  bear,  this  being  so  near  you  on  that 
last  night,  unable  even  to  kiss  you  good 
night  and  God  bless  you.  After  the  race 
you  can  come  to  my  room,  and  we  will  go 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  57 

to  New  Haven  on  the  special  train  with 
the  crew.  Of  course  you  are  going  to  win 
again,  when  your  mother  is  coming  all  the 
way  from  the  South  to  see  her  boy  fight 
for  old  Yale.  Oh,  I  want  so  much  to  see 
my  big,  handsome  boy,  and  it  will  be 
music  for  me  to  hear  the  thousands  cheer- 
ing him.  I  received  the  ticket  for  the  ob- 
servation train  in  Car  Fifteen,  and  I  can 
find  it  at  the  station,  as  you  directed  me, 
so  don't  have  me  on  your  mind  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  pray  for  you  each  night,  and 
may  God  bring  me  safe  to  you. 

Your  loving  and  adoring 

LITTLE  MOTHER. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  let  her  know," 
observed  Hastings  with  a  long  sigh. 

"Which?"  asked  the  Stroke,  as  he 
searched  his  comrade's  face  with  shrewd 
kindliness. 

"I  mean  Mother,  of  course,"  was  the 
reply,  followed  by  a  sharp  prick  of  con- 
science. "She  is  coming  up  by  sea,  she  is 
on  the  way  now.  The  other  letter  was 
from  a — from  a  friend.  She  is  to  be  here, 
too." 

"You  ought  to  meet  her  in  New  York 


58  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

— your  mother,  of  course.  She  is  first  in 
your  thoughts,  I  am  sure,"  advised  the 
Stroke,  with  a  perceptible  shade  of  disbe- 
lief. "Just  let  her  see  that  you  are  sound 
and  lusty,  that's  what  she  will  care  most 
about.  She  will  be  sorry  for  your  sake, 
not  for  her  own." 

Throwing  himself  across  his  cot,  Hast- 
ings looked  out  of  the  nearest  window, 
down  the  river  to  where  the  flag  above  the 
Harvard  Quarters  slashed  the  sky  like  a 
ribbon  of  flame.  There  were  the  enemy 
whom  he  had  helped  to  defeat,  and  now  it 
seemed  an  honorable  thing,  greatly  to  be 
desired,  even  to  row  on  a  beaten  crew. 
The  tousled  head  went  to  the  pillow,  and 
he  could  no  longer  help  pouring  out  his 
heart  to  his  friend : 

"Nothing  can  make  it  any  worse  than 
it  is.  I  have  worked  every  summer  so  far, 
and  I  was  going  to  have  a  real  vacation 
this  year,  the  first  since  I  have  been  in  col- 
lege. Now  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  any 
good  times,  with  disgrace  hanging  over 
me.  I  am  going  to  apply  for  my  summer 
job  again,  but  I've  been  working  in  the 
office  of  a  Yale  man,  and  I  am  afraid  he 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  59 

won't  want  to  have  a  slob  around  him  who 
was  kicked  off  the  crew  four  days  before 
the  race,  will  he?  Of  course  he  won't. 
The  last  month  has  been  simply  hell. 
Mother  has  been  living  in  the  thought  of 
this  trip  just  to  see  me  row  against  Har- 
vard, and — and  there  is  a  girl — well,  I  am 
a  big,  whining,  useless  baby,  that's  all." 

The  Stroke  was  an  older  man  by  five 
years,  who  had  known  a  man's  stress  and 
sorrows  before  his  college  days  began. 
Had  he  been  a  man  of  readier  speech,  he 
would  have  tried  somehow  to  make  the 
sorrowing  boy  realize  that  there  were 
other  worlds  to  conquer,  wider  and  more 
inspiring  fields  in  the  years  beyond.  Yet 
there  was  something  quite  fine  in  this 
absorption  in  the  crew;  it  was  what  one 
ought  to  feel  at  twenty-one,  and  it  might 
be  better  for  him  to  fight  it  out  alone. 
The  Stroke  was  glad  when  the  youngster 
marched  out  of  the  room  without  more 
words.  "I  hope  he  stands  the  gaff," 
thought  the  elder  man. 

Hastings'  first  impulse  had  been  to  flee 
the  place,  and  he  was  still  busy  with  the 
longing  to  be  anywhere  away  from  the 


60  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

sights  and  sounds  that  racked  him  because 
they  were  so  infinitely  much  to  him. 
While  he  struggled  with  the  decision,  the 
eight  began  to  make  ready  for  the  long 
afternoon  practice.  As  the  shell  swung 
out  of  sight  around  the  curve  of  the  shore, 
Hastings  had  not  believed  it  possible  that 
any  one  could  feel  as  lonely  and  neglected 
as  he  at  that  moment.  Just  then  he  saw 
a  University  substitute  standing  idly  in 
the  boathouse  door,  and  he  remembered 
that  with  one  transferred  to  the  eight,  and 
another  laid  off  with  a  cold,  this  young- 
ster, Bates,  was  the  sole  survivor  of  the 
trio  which  had  its  own  thankless  duties 
and  burdens.  The  intending  fugitive 
made  a  choice  then  and  there,  as  he  slid 
down  the  bank,  shouting: 

"Aren't  you  going  out  to-day  to  keep 
tabs  on  the  Red-Heads?" 

The  solitary  substitute  ruefully  shook 
his  head: 

"No,  I  haven't  any  one  to  man  the  pair- 
oar  with  me,  and  I'm  no  good  in  a  single 
shell.  And  I  ought  to  be  over  at  the  start 
right  now,  for  the  tip  is  out  that  Harvard 
is  going  to  try  the  four  miles  on  time,  their 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  6l 

last  attempt.  How  am  I  going  to  catch 
their  time,  I  want  to  know,  with  nobody  to 
help  me?" 

Hastings  laid  hold  of  the  bow  of  the 
pair-oared  boat  as  he  said : 

"Get  hold  of  the  other  end  of  the  tub, 
and  we'll  put  her  in  the  water.  I  might  as 
well  be  a  substitute,  too,  if  there  is  work 
for  me  to  do.  We'll  hold  the  watch  on  the 
Johnny  Harvards  in  great  shape." 

The  substitute  glimpsed  something  of 
the  sacrifice  and  struggle  in  Hastings' 
offer  to  help  him,  but  he  could  not  know 
it  all,  because  he  was  only  a  "sub."  The 
two  were  bending  over  their  stretchers 
lacing  the  shoes,  when  the  launch  slipped 
past  the  float  so  quietly  that  the  substitutes 
did  not  hear  it.  The  Head  Coach,  how- 
ever, standing  on  the  forward  deck,  heard 
Hastings  say  to  his  mate  with  an  evident 
effort: 

"I  came  pretty  near  playing  the  baby 
act  and  running  away,  but  if  I  can  help 
the  Yale  shell  to  go  faster  by  being  out 
of  it,  I  am  glad  of  it.  That's  what  I  am 
rowing  for,  anyhow.  And  if  I  can  be  of 
any  use  as  a  substitute,  why,  that's  what 


62  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

I  am  here  for,  too.  It  is  all  for  Yale, 
isn't  it?" 

The  two  in  the  pair-oar  rowed  across 
the  river,  landed  a  half  mile  above  the 
start  of  the  four-mile  course,  and  walked 
down  the  railroad  track. 

"We  can't  do  anything  more  than  catch 
their  time  over  the  first  mile,"  observed 
the  experienced  Bates ;  "but  that  will  give 
us  a  good  line  on  the  gait  they  are  going." 
Hastings  meekly  followed  instructions  to 
hurry  to  the  hill  opposite  the  first-mile 
flag,  and  be  ready  to  wave  his  handker- 
chief when  the  Harvard  crew  should  pass 
him.  Bates,  at  the  start  with  a  stop 
watch,  would  snap  the  time  at  this  signal. 
In  dust  and  quivering  heat,  Hastings 
trudged  along  the  ties,  crept  up  the  hill 
and  lay  on  his  stomach  under  a  tree,  wait- 
ing the  appearance  of  the  Harvard  crew. 
The  tears  could  not  be  held  back  at 
thought  of  this  humiliation,  of  the  abys- 
mal gap  between  this  petty  spying  in 
ambush,  and  all  the  days  in  which  he  had 
swung  by  this  first-mile  flag  in  the  Uni- 
versity eight. 

There  was  much  time  for  meditation, 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  63 

and  while  the  first  shock  had  wrecked  his 
every  hope,  he  began  to  patch  the  fabric 
of  his  dearest  dream,  until  he  was  ready  to 
believe  that,  even  more  clearly  than  his 
mother,  Cynthia  Wells  would  understand. 
She  would  see  that  he  had  tried  to  do  his 
best,  that  the  failure  was  blackened  by 
nothing  left  undone,  and  that  his  great 
disappointment  was  of  a  piece  with  those 
troubles  which  knit  closer  the  bonds  of 
friendship.  She  would  know  that  it  was 
"all  for  Yale,"  that  winning  the  race  was 
more  important  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  and  he  ached  for  the  words  of  com- 
fort and  inspiration  she  would  be  so  eager 
to  offer.  If  friendship  meant  anything 
it  meant  help  in  such  times  as  this. 


II 

ON  the  day  before  the  race  Hastings' 
occupation  as  a  substitute  was  gone.  The 
shadow  of  the  morrow  was  over  the  Quar- 
ters, the  atmosphere  was  funereal,  and  the 
strapping  oarsmen  were  coddled  like  in- 
fants. He  had  no  part  in  the  excitement, 


64  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

and  was  free  to  meet  his  mother  in  New 
York  that  afternoon.  The  news  he  must 
bear  her  made  him  as  nervous  as  if  he  were 
facing  the  tussle  of  the  eights.  After 
farewells  with  his  other  comrades  he 
sought  the  Stroke,  who  grasped  the  hand 
of  the  sorrowful  exile  in  a  crushing  grip. 

"Keep  your  nerve,  Jack,"  said  he;  "it 
will  aU  come  out  in  the  wash.  I  know 
there's  a  girl  in  it,  and  if  she  is  the  right 
sort,  she  will  understand." 

Hastings  flushed  at  mention  of  the 
feminine  factor,  as  he  stammered: 

"Of  course  she  will  understand.  She 
is  that  kind,  all  right.  But  I  hope  to 
Heaven  I'll  never  clap  eyes  on  Gales 
Ferry  again.  Damn  the  place!  Good- 
bye. You've  been  a  brick  to  me,  and  lots 
of  comfort." 

After  he  had  gone,  the  Stroke  looked 
up  from  his  book  for  some  time,  while  a 
tender  smile  softened  his  strong  mouth. 
He  had  found  a  girl  who  could  under- 
stand, and  he  hoped  the  same  good  for- 
tune for  his  friend. 

When  the  train  passed  through  New 
Haven,  Hastings  wore  a  hang-dog  air, 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  65 

fearing  recognition.  A  runaway  from 
New  London  the  day  before  the  race,  his 
college  town  was  the  last  place  on  earth 
in  which  he  wished  to  be  seen.  As  he 
neared  New  York  he  braced  himself  for 
the  meeting  with  his  mother,  blindly  fear- 
ing that  she  would  be  sorely  disappointed 
in  him.  But  the  Mohican  had  been  de- 
layed by  heavy  weather  along  the  coast 
and  a  smothering  fog  off  Sandy  Hook, 
and  could  not  be  expected  to  reach  her 
dock  before  seven  o'clock  of  the  following 
morning. 

Hastings  felt  as  if  he  were  cast  away 
on  a  desert  island.  He  yearned  for  his 
mother  now,  but  she  was  somewhere  out 
in  the  fog,  and  he  was  alone  in  New  York, 
alone  through  the  long  night  before  the 
race,  with  all  its  smarting,  thrilling  memo- 
ries. Long  after  midnight,  unable  to 
coax  drowsiness,  his  thoughts  went  hom- 
ing back  to  the  Quarters  as  he  knew  the 
place  in  these  last  hours. 

He  could  hear  the  call  of  the  robin  at 
daybreak  in  the  tree  by  his  window,  the 
call  that  had  aroused  him  to  face  the  issues 
of  two  races  when  he  was  Number  Five. 


66  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

He  could  picture  the  morning  scenes,  the 
hush  of  lawn  and  house,  the  enforced 
lounging  on  bed  and  sofa  until  the  sum- 
mons to  be  ready  and  dressed  at  the  boat- 
house. 

Then  he  recalled  the  tense  waiting  on 
the  float  for  the  call  of  the  whistle  of  the 
referee's  yacht,  how  the  year  before  they 
had  sat  together  in  the  sunshine  and  sung 
the  chorus  of  "Jolly  Boating  Weather." 
Since  then  it  had  become  to  him  a  battle 
song,  a  chant  profoundly  burdened  with 
sentiment  and  solemnity.  He  could  not 
hear  it  without  f eeling  a  lump  in  his 
breast.  Now  the  shell  would  be  launched, 
the  men  seating  themselves  with  unusual 
care,  and  the  coaches  would  shake  hands 
from  stroke  to  bow  as  the  eight  shoved 
off  to  row  over  to  the  start.  .  .  .  He 
wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face  and  came 
back  to  the  stifling  room  of  the  hotel  in 
New  York,  and  the  sense  of  cruel  isola- 
tion. 

It  was  almost  daylight  when  Hastings 
fell  asleep,  more  tired  than  he  knew,  and 
when  he  awoke,  a  glance  at  his  watch  told 
him  that  he  had  overslept,  and  that  it  was 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  67 

nearly  ten  o'clock.  The  reply  to  a  frantic 
telephone  message  was  that  all  the  pas- 
sengers of  the  Mohican  had  gone  ashore 
shortly  after  eight  o'clock.  His  mother 
had  gone  to  New  London  without  him, 
and  the  express  train  into  which  he  dove 
was  due  to  arrive  at  the  scene  of  conflict 
barely  in  time  to  connect  with  the  observa- 
tion train,  if  all  conditions  favored.  Ten 
minutes  behind  time,  he  was  running 
through  the  New  London  station,  as  the 
tail  of  the  rearward  observation  cars  was 
vanishing  around  a  curve  of  the  track 
yard,  with  cheering  in  its  wake. 

Vainly  pursuing  on  foot,  Hastings 
came  to  a  standstill,  stranded  and  alone, 
unable  even  to  see  the  race,  about  to  start 
five  miles  up  the  river.  Walking  down 
to  the  nearest  wharf,  he  could  see  through 
the  arches  of  the  great  railroad  bridge  the 
festooned  yachts  stretching  in  squadrons 
beyond,  and  between  them  only  a  little 
patch  of  silver  lane  where  the  crews  would 
finish. 


68  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 


III 

SHORTLY  after  noon,  there  stepped  from 
the  first  "special"  into  New  London  a 
fragile  yet  sprightly  little  woman  in  rus- 
tling black,  alone,  but  confident  and 
unafraid.  Her  sweet  face  was  made  beau- 
tiful, even  youthful,  by  the  flush  of  ex- 
citement that  tinted  her  cheek  so  delicately 
beneath  her  silvered  hair.  Violets  were 
pinned  at  her  waist;  in  one  hand  she  car- 
ried a  flag  of  Yale  blue,  and  in  the  other 
a  decorative  souvenir  programme  "con- 
taining the  pictures  of  all  the  crews." 
Those  near  her  in  the  car  had  watched 
with  pleasure  her  vivacious  interest  in  this 
booklet,  but  only  the  gentleman  sitting 
next  her  had  been  taken  into  her  confi- 
dence. Thirty  years  out  of  college,  he 
was  come  from  the  far  West  to  his  class 
reunion,  and  he,  too,  had  a  boy  in  Yale. 
Fortunately  or  otherwise,  he  had  not  kept 
in  touch  with  the  most  recent  news  of  the 
heroic  figures  of  aquatics,  and  he  knew 
not  even  the  names  of  the  crew  of  the 
year  at  Yale,  so  that  she  could  enlighten 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  69 

his  lamentable  ignorance  and  right  will- 
ingly. The  "souvenir"  booklet  had  been 
printed  a  week  before  the  race,  too  soon 
to  record  the  change  in  the  personnel  of 
the  Yale  eight,  and  there  was  her  boy's 
picture  filling  a  page,  a  massive  young 
giant,  most  scantily  clothed.  The  man 
from  the  West  saw  in  the  picture  the 
mother's  brown  eyes,  and  his  heart  was 
stirred,  for  he  knew  what  it  was  to  have 
an  only  son  with  his  mother's  eyes. 

"Yes,  John  has  been  on  the  crew  three 
years,"  she  confided,  "and  he  will  be  the 
captain  next  year.  I  fairly  live  with  him 
in  spirit  through  the  whole  six  months  of 
the  training  season.  He  has  had  a  very 
hard  time  this  season,  and  lately  his  letters 
have  been  a  little  despondent.  But  I  was 
never  so  delighted  as  when  I  learned  from 
the  head-lines  of  this  morning's  news- 
papers that  there  has  been  a  wonderful 
improvement  in  the  last  week.  Oh,  I  am 
excited,  there  is  no  use  trying  to  deny  it. 
It  is  almost  too  big  an  event  for  an  old 
woman  to  survive." 

The  gray-haired  stranger  was  comfort- 
ing, and  in  the  recesses  of  his  memory 


70  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

found  certain  eulogies  pronounced  by  his 
son  regarding  "Jack  Hastings,  the  big- 
gest man  in  his  class,  by  Jove!"  He  in- 
sisted upon  presenting  two  of  his  own 
classmates,  and  they  bowed  low  in  formal 
tribute  to  the  "mother  of  the  next  captain 
of  the  crew." 

The  porter  must  leave  her  bag  in  the 
station,  for  she  could  not  wait  to  go  to  the 
boarding  house  when  the  air  was  full  of 
tingling  sights  and  sounds,  all  the  excite- 
ment and  flaunting  color  paying  homage 
to  the  prowess  of  John  Hastings.  She 
found  Car  Fifteen,  and  sat  in  a  beautiful 
dream,  watching  the  holiday  crowds  fill 
the  canopied  lengths  of  open  train.  What 
a  tale  to  tell  when  she  should  come  again 
to  the  little  colorless  village  in  the  South ! 
It  seemed  impossible  to  drink  it  all  in 
when  the  train  began  to  move  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  amazing  panorama  of 
the  Thames  flashed  into  view.  The  eager 
eyes  of  the  oarsman's  mother  passed 
quickly  over  the  gorgeous  marine  pic- 
tures, by  the  twisting  length  of  the  riotous 
train,  up,  up  the  river  toward  the  quiet 
reaches,  hoping  to  discern  the  white  house 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  71 

on  the  high  bank  and  the  big  blue  flag 
floating  above  the  Quarters  at  Gales 
Ferry,  a  scene  she  knew  from  many  de- 
scriptions. 

Soon  the  train  had  passed  the  yachts 
and  the  crowds  massed  on  shore,  and  was 
opposite  the  red-roofed  home  of  the  Har- 
vard crew,  whose  crimson  flag  seemed  to 
her  to  flaunt  an  insolent  defiance.  In 
near-by  cars  fluttered  many  Harvard 
flags,  as  the  partisans  from  Cambridge 
chanted  their  slogan,  inspired  by  the  sight 
of  their  rowing  camp  across  the  river. 
She  turned  to  look  at  the  offenders  with 
reproof  in  her  manner.  How  could  they 
be  so  misguided  as  to  cheer  for  Harvard? 
How  dreadful  it  was  to  think  that  if  John 
should  be  beaten,  every  one  of  them  would 
be  shouting  even  louder  for  joy.  So  she 
turned  to  gaze  at  the  Yale  Quarters, 
which  she  could  see  quite  plainly,  and  the 
ugly  brown  boathouse  squatted  at  the 
water's  edge. 

Her  color  came  and  went,  and  stayed  in 
a  brilliant  patch  when  she  saw,  with  a 
quick  intake  of  breath,  a  yellow  streak 
appear  in  front  of  the  boathouse  and  a 


72  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

number  of  Lilliputians  walking  beside 
it.  There  seemed  an  eternity  of  delay 
before  the  wisp  of  a  shell  settled  on 
the  water,  and  nine  figures  climbed  into 
it,  while  her  heart  was  tripping  furi- 
ously. 

The  thing  became  in  motion,  it  was 
crawling  across  the  river  like  a  mechanical 
toy,  with  frequent  pauses.  Could  this  be 
the  Crew,  this  fragile  thing  that  moved 
over  the  water  so  slowly?  A  roar  from 
the  Harvard  cars,  and  Mrs.  Hastings 
turned  to  see  a  similar  set  of  manikins 
swaying  in  as  absurd  a  boat,  heading  out 
from  "Red  Top."  The  mother  looked  at 
them  only  for  an  instant,  because  the  Yale 
crew  was  crossing  the  river  faster  than 
she  could  realize,  and  soon  it  was  half  a 
mile  above  the  start,  paddling  and  drift- 
ing down  with  the  tide  to  get  into  position 
at  its  stake-boat.  She  wanted  to  call  im- 
ploringly to  the  referee  to  bring  the  crew 
nearer,  nearer,  so  that  she  might  see  the 
men,  and  count  from  the  bow,  to  two, 
three,  four,  five.  Presently  the  shell 
swung  round,  parallel  with  the  shore,  and 
maneuvered  into  position  scarcely  twenty 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  73 

yards  from  the  observation  train  hanging 
on  the  edge  of  the  bank. 

At  last  the  mother  could  look  for  Num- 
ber Five.  She  counted  with  an  eager  and 
quivering  finger.  No,  she  must  have  made 
a  mistake — that  was  not  John  at  Number 
Five.  They  must  have  shifted  him  to  an- 
other seat  at  the  last  moment. 

She  flung  away  all  method  and  searched 
the  stern  young  faces  from  stroke  to  bow, 
from  bow  to  stroke  and  back  again,  with 
yearning  agony  of  intensity.  She  made 
bold  to  ask  that  the  gentleman  next  her 
lend  her  his  field-glasses  for  a  moment,  and 
focused  them  on  the  shell,  seeking  in 
vain.  The  color  had  fled  from  her  cheeks, 
and  she  sat  back,  white  and  silent,  beyond 
speech.  Around  her  raved  the  cheers  of 
thousands,  but  the  rocketing  "rahs"  for 
Yale  sounded  in  her  ears  like  some  bar- 
baric funeral  chant.  She  had  become  old 
and  weak  far  beyond  her  years. 

Her  distress  was  unnoticed,  and  through 
a  haze  she  saw  the  long  shells  leap  from 
their  leashes  with  incredible  suddenness 
in  tearing  cascades  of  foam.  To  the 
mourning  mother  the  race  was  no  more 


74  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

than  an  exhibition  of  automatons,  as  Har- 
vard took  the  lead,  and  then  the  long  Yale 
swing  cut  it  down  remorselessly,  foot  by 
foot,  until  the  gap  was  closed.  She  closed 
her  eyes  with  a  weary  sigh,  but  rallied  in 
a  little  while  to  try  to  make  herself  heard 
above  the  din.  Yale  was  spurting  gal- 
lantly, and  those  around  her  were  obliv- 
ious to  the  quavering  voice  and  its  vital 
questions : 

"Where  is  John  Hastings?  Number 
Five  in  the  Yale  Crew?  Where  has  he 
gone?  What  have  they  done  with  him? 
Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  tell  me,  please.  I  am 
his  mother." 

Yale  hopes  drooped  as  Harvard  met 
the  spurt,  and  in  the  lull  a  young  man 
of  a  kindly  face  saw  that  she  was  ill,  and 
leaned  toward  her  to  ask  whether  he 
could  help.  She  was  able  to  make  him 
understand,  and  there  was  a  huskiness  in 
his  voice  that  came  not  all  from  cheering, 
as  he  said : 

"Why,  he's  all  right,  safe  and  sound  as 
a  dollar.  He  was  taken  out  of  the  boat 
four  or  five  days  ago,  and  Matthews  put 
in  his  place.  No,  I  don't  know  what  the 


Jack  Hasting'' s  mother  cannot  tfi>id  her  boy  hi  the  cretr. 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  75 

matter  was.  Too  heavy,  I  fancy.  I'm 
awfully  sorry  for  you." 

Where  else  should  a  boy  flee  in  time  of 
trouble  than  straight  to  his  mother's  arms  ? 
Therefore  the  reason  for  his  disappear- 
ance must  be  an  alarming  one.  Then  she 
felt  a  blaze  of  swift  anger.  It  was  an 
outrageous  act  of  injustice,  this  deed  of 
the  Yale  coaches.  They  were  no  better 
than  conspirators  thus  to  treat  the  best 
oarsman  they  had.  It  was  not  in  a 
mother's  philosophy  to  grasp  the  view- 
point that  what  was  best  for  Yale  was 
best  for  all  who  fought  for  its  glory. 
She  vowed  that  a  reckoning  was  due,  and 
that  her  duty  was  to  see  these  coaches, 
and  tell  them  the  truth  before  she  left  the 
scene.  And  so,  between  wrath  and  tears, 
she  saw  the  race  end,  saw  the  Yale  crew 
sweep  across  the  finish  line,  victors  over 
Harvard  by  four  lengths.  This  was  what 
she  had  come  to  see,  what  she  had  lived 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  through  three  long 
years,  and  now  all  had  turned  to  ashes. 

Wearily  she  threaded  a  way  through 
the  thronging  railroad  station,  found  a 
cab  and  gave  the  driver  directions  for 


76  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

reaching  the  boarding  house  where  a  room 
awaited  her.  Her  steps  faltered  as  she 
toiled  up  the  stairs,  and  all  that  gave  her 
strength  for  the  ascent  was  the  flicker  of 
hope  that  John  might  be  there,  or  that 
some  message  had  come  from  him.  The 
room  was  empty,  the  table  bare  of  letter 
or  telegram.  Carefully  laying  her  bonnet 
and  jacket  on  a  chair,  she  looked  at  her 
face  in  a  mirror,  and  it  frightened  her. 
Although  she  was  eager  to  be  out  again  in 
search  of  the  way  to  Gales  Ferry,  rest 
was  imperative,  and  she  crossed  over  to 
the  bed  and  lay  down  for  a  few  moments 
until  the  dizzy  f  aintness  should  pass. 


IV 

WHEN  John  Hastings  drifted  down  to 
the  wharf  nearest  the  railroad  station,  he 
laid  an  almost  aimless  course.  While  he 
could  not  see  the  race,  he  was  drawn  to 
the  harbor  into  which  flowed  the  river,  the 
river  by  whose  bank,  five  miles  away,  his 
comrades  were  waiting  for  the  summons, 
and  perhaps  even  then  singing  "Jolly 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  J] 

Boating  Weather,"  as  it  was  never  sung 
at  any  other  time. 

Through  the  maze  of  fragile  shipping 
flying  the  flags  of  a  dozen  yacht  clubs 
threaded  a  naphtha  launch  hurrying  to- 
ward the  bridge,  the  cock-pit  gay  with 
»  white  gowns  and  blue  uniforms,  and  Yale 
colors  fluttering  at  bow  and  stern.  The 
outcast  bestowed  no  more  than  a  scowling 
glance  on  the  glittering,  humming  pleas- 
ure craft,  and  was  about  to  saunter  shore- 
ward with  a  vague  intent  of  hovering  near 
the  telegraph  office  until  the  result  of  the 
race  should  be  known,  when  the  beckon- 
ing flurry  of  several  handkerchiefs  de- 
layed his  retreat. 

He  walked  to  the  end  of  the  wharf  in 
idlest  curiosity,  and  the  possibility  stag- 
gered him  only  an  instant  before  he  knew 
the  fact.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
trim  and  jaunty  figure  in  the  bow  for 
any  one  else  than  Cynthia  Wells  herself, 
as  she  flicked  the  steering  wheel  over  and 
ran  the  craft  close  to  the  stringpiece, 
while  the  sailor  in  the  stern  held  fast  with 
a  boat  hook.  Her  voice  was  lifted  in  per- 
emptory command: 


78  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

"Scramble  right  down  here  this  minute, 
and  tumble  aboard,  Jack.  We  are  aw- 
fully late  already.  Broke  down  on  the 
way  from  the  Diana.  I  don't  know  what 
in  the  world  you  are  doing  here,  but 
we  can't  pass  such  an  image  of  deso- 
lation. Hurry,  please.  I  am  the  skipper 
to-day." 

Jack  would  have  vastly  preferred  to 
run  away.  This  meeting  was  not  at  all 
what  he  had  planned.  His  misery  loved 
company  limited  to  one,  and  that  one  was 
hedged  about  by  half  a  dozen  laughing 
men  and  girls  out  for  a  holiday  lark.  He 
realized  how  sorry  a  figure  of  a  man  he 
was  in  this  scene,  but  retreat  meant  cow- 
ardly flight,  and  there  was  the  shadow  of 
consolation  in  being  near  her.  The  grip 
of  "Dickie"  Munson's  hand  spelled  un- 
derstanding of  the  situation  as  the  class- 
mate said : 

"We're  tickled  to  death  to  kidnap  you 
this  way,  Jack.  It's  a  tough  day  for  you, 
I  know,  but  you  must  not  miss  the  race. 
Get  forward.  There's  room  by  Miss 
Wells,  and,  of  course,  she  is  dying  to  see 
you." 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  79 

When  he  found  himself  standing  by  the 
side  of  Cynthia,  she  was  alert  and  ab- 
sorbed in  steering  the  launch  with  confi- 
dent ease  toward  the  swirling  channel 
between  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  where 
small  craft  darted  and  drifted  in  common 
eagerness  to  find  positions  along  the  last 
mile  of  the  swarming  course. 

The  jolly  wind  whipped  a  straying  lock 
of  gold-shot  hair  across  her  eyes,  and  she 
brushed  it  aside  with  an  impatient  gesture. 
Her  adorable  face,  warm  with  the  glow 
of  many  summer  days  of  sun  and  breeze, 
was  set  in  serious  alertness.  Standing 
straight  and  tall,  head  thrown  back  and 
shoulders  squared,  the  poise  and  look  of 
her  were  as  athletic  as  the  bearing  of  the 
man  at  her  side.  With  her  mind  wholly 
intent  on  the  business  in  hand,  she  said 
crisply: 

"I  have  the  right  of  way  over  that  tub 
to  port.  Why  doesn't  he  head  inshore? 
How  is  the  tide  through  that  middle  arch, 
Jack?  You  ought  to  know." 

He  made  brief  reply.  Unreasonably 
sensitive,  he  did  not  realize  that  her  pre- 
occupation was  essential.  At  the  least,  he 


8o  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

had  expected  she  would  speak  some  ready 
word  of  the  sympathy  he  craved,  because 
he  stood  for  a  tragedy  in  which  she  ought 
to  show  concern.  Did  she  not  know,  could 
she  not  feel  what  this  flight  up  the  course 
meant  to  him,  "Jack  Hastings,  Number 
Five"?  But  the  girl  at  the  wheel  was  too 
busy  even  to  note  the  gloom  in  his  face,  as 
she  shot  the  launch  into  a  roomy  berth 
near  the  three  and  a  half  mile  flag,  at  the 
edge  of  the  streak  of  open  water.  Then 
Cynthia  turned  to  Hastings,  held  out  a 
firm  brown  hand,  and  said  with  a  happy 
smile: 

"There,  congratulate  me.  Could  your 
coxswain,  with  his  absurd  little  mega- 
phone and  all  his  importance,  do  a  neater 
trick  of  steering  than  that?  Now,  you 
poor  unfortunate  boy,  I  am  ready  to  hear 
all  about  your  troubles.  We  heard  yester- 
day, when  we  came  ashore  at  New  Lon- 
don, that  you  had  been  evicted,  or  had 
gone  on  strike,  or  something  of  the  sort. 
Are  you  all  broken  up  over  it,  and  how 
did  it  happen?  I  am  terribly  disap- 
pointed, too.  I  came  on  to  see  you  win  a 
race.  I  don't  care  a  rap  for  the  other 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  8l 

heroes.  Poor  old  Jack!  He  looks  as  if 
he  were  chief  mourner." 

She  patted  his  hand  with  a  motherly 
air,  and  the  mourner  sighed  heavily. 
Evidently  she  was  making  a  gallant  effort 
to  hide  her  genuine  emotion  from  the 
alien  company.  He  tried  to  imitate  her 
lightness  of  manner  as  he  replied,  with  a 
laugh  that  was  a  trifle  shaky: 

"Yes,  I  have  been  out  of  the  crew  four 
days,  Cynthia,  and  it  seems  four  years.  It 
was  awfully  good  of  you  to  pick  me  up, 
but  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  glad  or 
not.  Perhaps  you  ought  to  have  left  me 
alone." 

"And  why,  Mister  Knight  of  the  Sor- 
rowful .Countenance?  Didn't  you  want 
to  see  me?" 

There  was  archness  in  the  query,  even  a 
trace  of  pretty  coquetry  in  her  air.  Where 
was  the  kinship  of  souls,  that  wonder- 
ful symphony  of  understanding  he  had 
dreamed  of  as  come  true?  With  a  fierce 
onset  of  earnestness,  he  confided: 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  more  than  any  one 
else  in  the  world.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
more  than  I  wanted  to  see  my  mother. 


82  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

She  is  looking  for  me  now.  She  is  on  that 
train  up  yonder.  It  has  been  a  pretty  hard 
day  for  me,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  for 
you." 

She  tried  to  make  amends : 

"Why,  of  course,  it  is  a  dreadful  disap- 
pointment for  you,  and  for  me,  and  for 
all  your  friends,  Jack.  But  aren't  you 
glad  it  gave  you  the  chance  to  be  here?  I 
certainly  am.  And  I'm  trying  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  so  must  you.  You  are 
the  same  old  Jack,  you  know,  in  the  crew 
or  out." 

The  first  smile  in  days  broke  over  his 
face.  If  he  was  the  same  old  Jack  to  her, 
the  rest  of  the  world  could  go  hang.  He 
was  about  to  tell  her  what  he  ached  to  re- 
veal in  a  rush  of  pent-up  desire,  what  the 
Crew  stood  for,  and  how  much  of  his  life 
was  bound  up  in  it.  She  caught  the  kin- 
dling light  in  his  face,  and  before  he 
spoke,  she  thought  this  light  was  all  for 
her.  That  his  interest  should  be  absorbed 
in  the  crew,  rather  than  in  Miss  Cynthia 
Wells,  piqued  her,  even  now,  as  he  began : 

"I  was  afraid  the  crash  was  coming  for 
some  time.  Nobody  can  know  how  I 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  83 

hoped  and  worried  through  those  weeks, 
when  I  felt  that  I  was  slipping  back.  I 
did  not  write  you  about  it,  because  I  could 
not  believe  there  was  any  serious  danger 
of  my  being  thrown  out  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, and  I  knew  it  would  harrow  you  to 
share  this  worry  with  me.  I — I — wanted 

your " 

The  classmate  behind  him  jumped  to 
his  feet  and  shouted: 

"There  they  come !  Yale  I  Yale !  Yale !" 
Hastings  glanced  along  the  water 
level  up-river.  Two  black  dots  were  vis- 
ible, each  fluttering  thread-like  tentacles. 
Abreast  of  them  trailed  the  observation 
train,  like  a  huge  serpent  of  gaudy  hues. 
He  bit  his  lip  and  trembled  with  sudden 
excitement,  while  Cynthia  Wells  stood, 
one  hand  shading  her  eyes,  so  eagerly  in- 
tent that  it  was  plain  that  she  had  forgot- 
ten the  oarsman  out  of  the  shell.  The  sea 
of  blue,  rippling  along  the  train,  told  him 
that  Yale  was  leading.  He  shut  his  eyes, 
fearing,  until  it  sickened  him,  that  some 
accident  might  happen  to  Yale,  even  with 
what  seemed  to  be  a  safe  lead. 


84  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 


To  those  who  did  not  know,  the  winners 
seemed  to  be  playing  with  rowing  as  they 
swept  toward  the  finish.  With  no  appar- 
ent effort  the  blue-tipped  blades  flashed 
in  and  out,  without  even  a  feather  of 
spray.  Forward  and  back  again  rocked 
eight  bare  backs,  working  as  if  coupled  on 
the  same  connecting  rod.  Hands  slipped 
easily  into  arched  and  heaving,  chests, 
and  shot  out  with  lightning  speed;  slow, 
slower,  swooped  the  shoulders  squared 
beneath  necks  like  fluted  columns  and 
heads  poised  with  airy  grace.  As  Hast- 
ings leaned  far  out  on  the  bow  of  the 
launch,  waving  his  hat  in  a  fury  of  ap- 
proval, the  shell  rushed  by  him  not  twenty 
feet  away,  and  the  complaining  roar  of 
the  slides  was  music  in  his  ears.  He  could 
feel  with  that  agony  of  effort  to  keep  in 
form  when  every  muscle  cried  out  in  re- 
bellion, and  the  choking  fight  for  breath, 
and  yet,  with  it  all,  the  glory  of  making 
the  swing  and  catch  fairly  lift  the  quiv- 
ering shell.  And  he  knew,  also,  the  in- 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  85 

toxication  of  the  sight  of  the  Harvard 
crew  laboring  astern,  as  seen  through  eyes 
half  blinded  with  sweat. 

Hastings  was  lifted  out  of  himself  un- 
til he  saw  his  crew  cease  rowing  and  the 
oars  trail  like  the  wings  of  a  tired  bird. 
Then  the  defeated  crew  went  past  him. 
There  were  breaks  in  the  swing,  heads 
nodded  on  the  catch,  backs  were  bending, 
and  bodies  swaying  athwartships.  It  was 
anything  now  to  cross  the  line  and  rest. 

Hastings  had  a  new  realization  of  what 
these  whipped  oarsmen  felt,  they  whose 
high  hopes  were  wrecked,  whose  labor,  as 
long  and  as  faithful  as  that  of  the  win- 
ners, had  gone  for  nought.  After  all,  he 
did  not  belong  with  the  winners,  he  was 
one  of  the  losers,  and  he  wished  he  might 
shake  their  hands.  He  cheered  with  all 
his  voice,  and  Number  Five  of  Harvard 
turned  a  drawn  face  to  this  salutation  so 
close  at  hand,  and  in  a  quick  glance  recog- 
nized his  dethroned  rival,  whom  he  had 
once  met  on  the  lawn  at  Gales  Ferry.  The 
man  in  the  boat  flashed  a  smile  of  com- 
radeship to  the  man  in  the  launch,  and 
both  felt  better  for  the  incident. 


86  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Cynthia  was  clapping  her  hands,  then 
she  tore  the  violets  from  her  gown  and 
flung  them  as  far  as  she  could  toward  the 
distant  crew. 

"Yale!  Yale!"  she  cried.  "Cast  off.  I 
want  to  work  the  launch  down  that  way 
to  see  them.  Wasn't  it  glorious?  Oh,  I 
never  saw  anything  half  so  fine.  I  want 
to  shake  their  hands,  every  one  of  that 
beautiful,  blessed  crew.  I'd  give  ten 
years  of  my  life  to  be  one  of  those  men  at 
this  moment." 

She  had  not  looked  at  Jack,  but  he  was 
determined  to  obtrude  himself  somehow. 

"How  about  the  man  who  worked  just 
as  hard,  and  gets  none  of  this  hero  wor- 
ship? Doesn't  he  deserve  anything  from 
you?" 

"Poor  old  Jack!"  she  said  tenderly. 
"Why,  I  forgot  all  about  you  for  a  little 
while.  It  is  a  shame  you  are  not  there. 
You  ought  to  have  tried  just  a  little  bit 
harder,  hadn't  you?  Now  you  can't  be  a 
hero,  but  don't  you  care.  We  are  all  sorry 
as  sorry  as  can  be." 

The  launch  had  daringly  poked  a  pas- 
sage close  to  the  float  on  to  which  the  crew 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  87 

was  now  clambering  from  the  shell.  Big 
brown,  half -naked  men  were  hugging 
each  other,  and  clumsily  dancing  in  stock- 
inged feet.  Eagerly  Cynthia  asked  her 
companion : 

"Do  tell  me  which  is  which,  Jack.  I 
want  to  be  able  to  know  them  all  by  name. 
Which  is  the  Stroke,  and  which  is  the  man 
at  Number  Five?  I  want  to  see  if  he 
looks  like  you." 

Hastings  gave  the  information  very 
soberly.  The  Stroke  caught  sight  of  his 
clouded  face,  and  yelled  to  his  fellows : 

"Hey,  here's  Jack  Hastings!  Three 
long  cheers  for  him.  Are  you  ready?" 

The  cheer  given  by  men  still  strug- 
gling to  regain  their  normal  breathing 
came  so  gratefully  to  John  Hastings 
that  he  felt  like  whimpering,  because  they 
understood.  The  launch  was  deftly 
steered  alongside  the  float,  and  grabbing 
the  outstretched  hand  of  Hastings,  the 
Stroke  nearly  pulled  him  overboard,  as 
he  whispered: 

"Jack,  I  am  glad  you  could  see  the  race 
with  the  Only  One.  It  must  have  helped 
you  over  the  rough  places.  There  is  noth- 


88  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

ing  like  it  when  things  look  blue.  God 
bless  you  both.  Where  is  your  mother? 
Be  sure  to  come  down  to  New  Haven  to- 
night, won't  you?" 

The  Stroke  jumped  to  help  load  the 
oars  on  the  coaching  launch  just  as  Cyn- 
thia said  to  Hastings : 

"Why  didn't  you  present  me?  I  think 
you  are  a  stupid  old  Jack." 

Where  was  his  mother?  Guilty  and 
ashamed,  he  stammered : 

"Please  set  me  ashore  anywhere  as  soon 
as  you  can,  and  I  shall  be  eternally  grate- 
ful." 

She  pouted. 

"Do  you  want  to  leave  me  so  soon? 
Certainly,  I  will  put  you  ashore  if  you 
wish.  You  have  been  as  cross  as  a  bear. 
You  must  do  penance  by  coming  off  to 
dinner  to-night." 

"Thanks,  I  have  another  engagement," 
said  he  shortly. 

The  observation  train  had  gone  to  the 
station,  and  it  must  be  emptied  of  its 
freight  by  this  time.  There  was  no  more 
time  for  talk  with  Cynthia,  and  he  did  not 
know  what  else  to  say  to  her  to  whom  the 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  89 

day  was  an  outing,  vastly  exciting  and  en- 
joyable.  Still,  he  sought  one  last  word  of 
sincere  realization  of  his  ill  fortune,  and 
found  no  response  to  his  own  heart  hun- 
ger. He  said  "Good-bye,"  as  he  stepped 
ashore,  and  holding  her  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment: 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  had  such  a 
pleasant  afternoon,  Cynthia.  A  friend  in 
need  is  a  friend  indeed." 

The  tribute  touched  and  pleased  her, 
and  the  irony  of  it  wholly  escaped  her, 
as  she  gayly  called  after  him: 

"Be  sure  you  don't  forget  to  look  us  up 
to-night." 

VI 

HASTINGS  did  not  look  behind  him,  as  with 
lowered  head  he  ran  along  the  railroad 
track  to  the  station,  jumped  into  a  cab  and 
urged  the  driver  to  speed  to  the  house 
where  his  mother  must  be  waiting. 

Some  one  within  heard  his  footstep, 
knew  it  for  what  she  craved  most  to  hear, 
and  was  in  the  doorway  of  her  room,  when 
he  saw  her.  Picking  her  up  like  a  child, 


QO  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

he  covered  her  white  hair,  her  tired  face, 
her  hands  with  kisses,  and  as  she  clung 
weeping  on  his  breast,  he  carried  her  to 
a  big  armchair  in  the  bay  window.  He 
was  on  his  knees  with  his  rumpled  head  in 
her  lap  when  she  found  broken  voice  to 
say: 

"Oh,  Jack,  are  you  well?  Are  you  all 
right?  My  own  precious  boyl  I  have 
come  to  comfort  and  love  you.  Nothing 
else  matters.  Nothing  else  matters  to  me, 
now  that  I  have  found  you  safe  and 
sound." 

She  twisted  her  slim  fingers  in  his  thick 
brown  hair,  and  as  she  felt  the  warm  pres- 
sure of  his  head  in  her  lap,  the  years  had 
stepped  aside,  and  he  was  the  little  boy 
who  used  to  flee  to  that  dear  sanctuary  in 
every  time  of  trial.  And  to  her  this  was 
only  another  trouble,  which  only  Mother 
could  understand  and  clear  from  his  path. 
When  at  length  he  looked  up,  she  was 
shocked  to  see  the  shadow  circles  under 
his  eyes,  and  the  nervous  twitching  of  the 
mouth  that  was  so  very  like  his  mother's. 
He  was  sobbing,  and  not  ashamed  of  it, 
as  he  murmured: 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  91 

"I  have  been  disgraced  and  disap- 
pointed, but  I  don't  care  any  more  now 
that  I  have  found  you.  Are  you  all  right, 
Little  Mother?  Did  you  think  I  had  de- 
serted you?" 

She  told  him  of  the  race  as  she  had  seen 
it,  and  was  with  difficulty  dissuaded  from 
planning  to  search  out  the  Head  Coach, 
crying  with  the  angry  sparkle  he  loved 
of  old: 

"It  is  not  ladylike,  Jack,  but  I  would 
like  to  scratch  his  horrid  eyes  out.  Of 
course,  he  should  have  kept  you  on  the 
crew,  but  we  are  not  going  to  cry  over 
spilt  milk,  are  we?  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
all  about  it — everything — so  that  we  can 
look  and  find  some  consolation.  Every 
cloud  has  a  silver  lining." 

While  he  carried  the  tale  down  to  the 
parting  with  Cynthia  she  smiled  and 
frowned  in  turn,  and  wiped  her  eyes  be- 
fore he  had  finished.  A  mother's  intui- 
tion read  between  the  lines  and  when  the 
rueful  confession  halted,  her  arm  stole 
around  his  neck,  and  she  kissed  him  again. 

"It  is  a  sad  story,"  she  said;  "but  never 
let  me  hear  that  word  disgrace  as  long  as 


92  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

you  live.  Of  course,  I  was  nearly  killed 
about  it  to-day,  and  I  should  have  been 
crying  for  four  nights  at  sea  if  I  could 
have  heard  the  news  before  I  started. 
But  it  would  have  been  only  because  you 
were  unhappy  and  disappointed.  What 
else  are  mothers  for  than  to  understand 
when  the  world  seems  upside  down? 
When  you  were  seven  years  old,  you  were 
kept  home  from  a  Sunday-school  picnic 
by  the  chicken-pox,  and  you  told  me  in 
floods  of  tears  that  you  didn't  'b'lieve  you 
could  never,  never  be  happy  again/  I 
knew  how  small  your  world  was,  and  that 
the  chicken-pox  was  big  enough  to  fill  it 
to  overflowing. 

"Now  you  have  tried  your  best,  you 
rowed  as  well  as  you  knew  how,  and  the 
crew  was  everything  to  you,  just  as  it 
ought  to  be.  But  some  day  you  may  have 
larger  troubles,  and  they,  too,  shall  pass 
away,  and  more  and  more  you  will  come 
back  to  the  simple  gospel  of  living  I  have 
tried  to  teach  you,  that  there  is  only  one 
standard  by  which  to  judge  success  or 
failure.  Is  the  tiring  worth  while,  and 
have  you  done  your  best  in  the  best  way 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  93 

to  gain  it?  I  don't  mean  to  preach,  my 
boy  mine.  You  don't  want  that.  You 
want  your  mother.  I  know,  I  know." 

She  stroked  his  cheek  as  he  went  deep 
into  his  heart,  and  brought  up  more  than 
he  had  ever  told  her  before  of  his  dreams 
of  love,  first  love,  and  of  what  he  had  been 
building.  His  mother  knew  that  she  must 
be  careful,  and  she  hesitated,  as  if  pon- 
dering how  best  to  speak  her  view-point. 

"She  did  not  understand,  poor  girl.  It 
is  not  all  her  fault,  and  it  is  not  yours, 
laddie  boy.  When  the  race  began  and  I 
saw  that  you  were  not  in  the  crew,  it 
seemed  as  if  I  were  in  the  depths  of  a 
bad  dream.  I  was  with  you  all  the  way, 
and  I  thought  of  nothing  else.  And  I 
know  that  while  you  would  have  been  with 
me  if  you  could,  yet  if  the  girl  were  here 
you  would  wish  in  your  heart  to  find  her 
first.  No,  don't  try  to  deny  it.  But  she 
did  not  know  at  all  what  it  meant  to  you, 
she  could  not  know.  But  if  she  had  loved 
you,  she  would  have  understood  as  I  did. 
We  will  talk  about  her  all  night  if  it  will 
make  your  heartache  any  better.  What 
are  we  going  to  do  now?" 


94  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

The  boy  straightened  himself  and  threw 
back  his  wide  shoulders,  because  his  mother 
saw  no  cause  for  reproach  in  his  downfall. 
But  he  did  not  want  to  see  the  crew  again, 
and  he  wished  to  avoid  the  riotous  celebra- 
tion soon  to  burst.  Obviously  the  best 
plan  was  to  go  to  New  Haven  at  once, 
where  they  could  find  refuge  in  his  rooms, 
and  pack  his  trunk  for  the  vacation  de- 
parture. 

To  him  this  little  journey  from  New 
London  was  a  panic  flight,  to  her  it  was 
made  radiant  by  the  one  fact  that  her  boy 
had  come  back  to  her.  After  dinner,  in  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  college  town,  they 
went  to  his  rooms  on  the  campus.  The 
sight  of  the  two  twelve-foot  oars  on  the 
walls,  his  own  trophies  of  two  victories, 
their  handles  stained  dark  with  the  sweat 
of  his  hands,  made  her  turn  to  him  as  they 
entered: 

"Nothing  can  ever  take  those  away 
from  you,  with  all  their  splendid  story  of 
success.'* 

The  boy  looked  at  them  for  an  instant, 
then  brushed  a  hand  across  his  tired  young 
eyes 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  95 

"Better  make  kindling  of  them,"  he 
said.  "Look  at  that  one  over  there.  I 
won  it  as  a  raw,  overgrown  Freshman,  and 
three  years  later  I  can't  do  as  well  as  I 
did  then.  Matthews,  'the  sub/  will  hang 
my  third  oar  on  his  wall  next  year.  I  am 
going  to  curl  up  on  the  window-seat  and 
rest  a  while,  Mother.  I  feel  all  played 
out." 

She,  too,  was  very  tired,  but  felt  that 
her  son  had  need  of  her,  and  she  tried  to 
soothe  him  to  sleep,  and  smiled  as  she 
found  herself  half  unconsciously  hum- 
ming a  slumber-song  she  had  crooned  to 
him  twenty  years  before.  Her  photograph 
was  on  his  desk,  and  framed  near  it  the 
winsome  face  of  Cynthia  Wells,  and  she 
crossed  the  room  to  look  closely  and  com- 
prehendingly  at  the  girl  who  had  acted  in 
her  own  world  as  naturally  as  had  the 
youth  in  his.  When  she  returned  to  the 
window,  her  son  was  asleep,  and  she  softly 
kissed  him. 

Looking  across  the  green,  she  saw  a 
blaze  of  red  fire  that  colored  the  evening 
sky.  Rockets  and  Roman  candles  began 
to  spangle  the  illumination,  and  presently 


96  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

the  far-away  blare  of  a  brass  band  crept 
nearer.  She  knew  that  these  were  signs 
of  the  home-coming  of  the  crew,  of  the 
celebration  whose  glories  Jack  had  elo- 
quently portrayed.  It  was  not  disloyalty 
to  him  that  she  should  want  to  see  what  it 
was  like,  although  she  knew  he  would  not 
want  to  be  there.  Yet  feeling  traitorish 
qualms,  she  scribbled  a  little  note,  saying 
she  had  gone  out  for  a  "breath  of  fresh 
air,"  and  stole  down  the  staircase. 

When  she  came  to  the  corner  the  pro- 
cession was  rioting  up  Chapel  Street  to- 
ward the  campus.  The  band  preceded  a 
tally-ho,  on  top  of  which  were  the  heroes 
in  their  white  boating  uniforms,  nervously 
dodging  innumerable  fiery  darts  aimed 
straight  at  them  by  wild-eyed  admirers  on 
the  pavement.  Behind,  surging  from 
curb  to  curb,  skipped  thousands  of  stu- 
dents and  townspeople,  arm  in  arm,  in 
common  rapture.  The  wavering  line  of 
fireworks  told  that  the  tail  of  the  parade 
was  blocks  and  blocks  away. 

The  coach  was  stopped  at  the  corner  of 
the  campus,  as  a  hundred  agile  figures 
swarmed  up  the  wheels,  and  dragged  the 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  97 

crew  to  earth,  from  which  they  were  in- 
stantly caught  up,  and  borne  on  tossing 
shoulders  to  the  stone  steps  of  the  nearest 
recitation  hall.  There  they  were  held 
aloft,  still  struggling,  while  cheers  greeted 
each  by  name. 

VII 

Now  the  celebration  programme  would 
have  been  halting  and  inadequate  if  the 
Assistant  Manager  of  the  Yale  Navy  had 
not  hurried  to  New  Haven  on  an  earlier 
train.  He  had  been  in  the  car  with  John 
Hastings,  and  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
sweet-faced  woman  of  the  silvery  hair 
must  be  his  mother.  He  was  plunging 
through  the  crowd  on  the  stone  steps,  try- 
ing to  rescue  the  oarsmen  in  order  to  head 
them  toward  the  banquet  hall,  when  be- 
neath the  arc  light  on  the  corner,  a  little 
way  out  of  the  tumult,  he  saw  the  timid 
lady  for  whom  he  had  felt  much  sym- 
pathy. The  Assistant  Manager  was  ably 
fitted  for  his  official  task  of  looking  after 
details,  because  he  fairly  boiled  over  with 
initiative,  and  with  him  to  think  was  to 


98  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

act,  as  the  powder  speeds  the  bullet.  He 
dashed  across  to  Mrs.  Hastings,  and  said, 
with  a  hurried  and  apologetic  bow: 

"Beg  pardon,  but  this  is  Jack  Hast- 
ings' mother,  are  you  not?  Yes,  thank  you, 
I  was  sure  of  it.  It  may  seem  presump- 
tuous, but  I  have  heard  lots  about  you,  and 
Jack  has  convinced  me  that  you  are  the 
finest  mother  in  the  world,  bar  one.  I  have 
been  so  inf  ern — so  very  busy  since  I  got 
in  town  from  New  London,  that  I  have 
had  no  time  to  look  up  Jack.  We  want 
him  at  the  dinner,  everybody  does,  and  we 
want  you  just  as  much.  In  fact,  you  must 
be  my  special  guest,  and  hear  the  speeches, 
anyhow,  if  you  won't  stay  any  longer. 
Jack's  asleep,  is  he?  Well,  we'll  wake 
him  up,  all  right." 

The  alarmed  little  mother  tried  to  pro- 
test several  things  at  once.  Jack  had 
sworn  he  would  not  go  to  the  dinner,  and 
that  he  would  break  the  neck  of  the  man 
who  should  try  to  rout  him  out.  Of 
course,  Jack  would  not  do  that  really,  but 
he  was  all  worn  out  and  needed  the  rest. 
Please  not  to  disturb  him,  and  she  would 
not  dream  of  going  without  him,  and  she 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  99 

did  not  want  to  go  at  all.  Her  earnest- 
ness was  almost  tearful,  but  the  Assistant 
Manager,  who  had  heard  perhaps  the  first 
ten  words,  darted  off  and  was  back  with 
two  young  men  whose  fists  were  full  of 
cannon  crackers.  He  had  each  fast  by 
the  coat-collar,  and  shoving  them  into  the 
foreground  like  a  pair  of  marionettes,  he 
breathlessly  blurted: 

"Mrs.  Hastings,  may  I  present  Mr. 
Stower  and  Mr.  'Stuffy'  Barlow,  both 
Seniors,  highly  dignified  and  proper  per- 
sons? This  is  Jack  Hastings'  mother. 
You  are  to  escort  Mrs.  Hastings  down  to 
Harmonium  Hall,  and  see  that  she  has  a 
nice  seat  in  the  gallery  or  near  the  door. 
No  trouble  at  all,  Mrs.  Hastings,  I  assure 
you.  Awfully  glad  to  have  had  the  honor 
of  meeting  you.  Good-bye.  I'll  run  over 
to  Jack's  room  and  drag  him  down  there 
in  five  minutes." 

Mrs.  Hastings  had  all  the  sensations  of 
being  kidnaped.  She  tried  to  protest, 
even  to  resist,  but  was  like  a  leaf  caught 
up  in  a  torrent,  as  Messrs.  Barlow  and 
Stower,  both  talking  at  once,  handed  her 
politely  but  firmly  into  the  depths  of  a 


100          A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

hack,  climbed  in  after  her  and  slammed 
the  door. 

Almost  in  a  twinkling,  as  it  seemed  to 
the  agitated  mother,  she  was  being  ushered 
carefully  into  a  small  music  gallery  over- 
looking the  banquet  floor,  where  from  a 
shadowy  corner  she  could  overlook  the  fes- 
tivities in  semi-seclusion.  She  waited  only 
until  her  genial  abductors  were  out  of 
sight,  and  then  slipped  furtively  toward 
the  stairs,  intending,  of  course,  to  return 
to  her  boy  if  he  did  not  appear  forthwith. 
Uneasy  and  fluttering,  she  was  also  keenly 
interested,  for  had  not  John  placed  this 
picture  before  her,  and  what  it  had  meant 
to  him  in  other  years?  He  met  her  at  the 
top  of  the  stairway,  looking  sheepish  and 
alarmed.  She  tried  to  explain,  but  he  cut 
her  short  with  a  laugh : 

"I  know  all  about  it,  Little  Mother. 
You  fell  a  victim  to  the  wiles  of  a  terrible 
set  of  villains.  You  couldn't  help  your- 
self. Neither  could  I,  when  I  heard  how 
you  had  been  spirited  away.  Now  you  are 
going  to  stay  and  see  the  fun,  aren't  you?" 

She  tried  to  persuade  him  to  leave  her 
and  take  his  seat  with  the  celebrants. 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  IOI 

"No,  I  have  lost  my  seat,"  said  he,  with 
the  old  shadow  on  his  face.  "I  don't  be- 
long there  any  more.  ...  I  don't 
•want  to  be  seen.  But  the  fellows  prom- 
ised not  to  give  me  away.  It  is  pretty 
nervy  for  me  to  come  at  all.  But  I  am 
here  only  to  escort  you." 

She  took  his  hand  and  held  it  while  they 
sat  well  back  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery 
and  watched  the  company  trooping  in. 
To  the  young  oarsmen,  so  clean-cut  and 
strong,  tired  but  happy,  all  their  woes 
and  fears  forgotten,  this  was  their  day  of 
days.  In  a  long  row  were  seated  the  Uni- 
versity eight,  the  substitutes,  and  the 
Freshman  crew,  which  had  also  won  its 
race.  At  the  head  of  the  table  was  "Big 
Bill"  Hall,  stout  oarsman  of  thirty  years 
ago,  now  a  much  stouter  citizen.  The 
captain  of  the  crew  was  at  his  right,  and 
at  his  left  hand  the  beaming  Head  Coach, 
burned  as  black  as  any  Indian.  In  another 
group  were  the  younger  coaches,  most  of 
them  old  strokes  and  captains,  and  mighty 
men  at  Yale  in  their  time.  Other  oarsmen 
of  other  days  were  welcomed,  regardless 
of  the  formality  of  invitation.  Perhaps 


102          A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

forty  men  around  the  board  had  known 
the  test  of  the  four-mile  course,  brothers 
of  the  oar  through  nearly  two  generations 
of  rowing  history. 

The  outcast  was  able  to  keep  his  poise 
until  the  Glee  Club  quartette  rose  to  sing, 
by  special  request  of  the  Head  Coach, 
"Jolly  Boating  Weather."  The  first 
tenor  had  a  sweet  and  sympathetic  voice, 
and  he  had  heard  the  story  of  the  singing 
of  this  song  on  the  float  just  before  the 
race,  wherefore  he  did  the  verses  uncom- 
monly well. 

Then  the  old  fellows,  some  with  griz- 
zled thatches,  and  some  with  thatches 
scant  and  thin,  had  their  innings  and 
pounded  the  table  to  emphasize  their  har- 
monious declaration  that 

"Twenty  years  hence  such  weather 
Will  tempt  us  from  office  stools. 

We  may  be  slow  on  the  feather, 
And  seem  to  the  boys  old  fools, 

But  we'll  still  swing  together " 

The  song  carried  to  Hastings  was  the 
last  straw  to  break  the  endurance  which 
had  pulled  him  through  the  long,  long 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  103 

day.  He  did  not  want  his  mother  to  see 
his  quivering  lip,  and  he  thought  she 
would  not  perceive  that  he  was  near  to 
breaking  down.  Did  she  know?  Why, 
she  felt  his  emotion  in  the  hand  she  clasped 
tighter  than  before,  she  read  his  thoughts 
in  the  very  beat  of  his  pulse,  and  when  he 
whispered  that  he  must  have  caught  a  cold 
in  the  head  because  he  was  getting  an  at- 
tack of  sniffles,  she  needed  no  words  to 
enlighten  her  understanding.  If  his  tears 
were  those  of  a  boy,  then  she  thanked  God 
she  was  childish  enough  to  feel  with  him 
at  every  step  and  turn  of  the  way  that  was 
blocked  by  the  biggest  sorrow  of  his  life. 
She  asked  him  whether  he  would  like  to 
go  home.  He  shook  his  head  and  said  that 
he  would  stick  it  through  to  the  end 

VIII 

SPEECHES  were  in  order,  and  the  presid- 
ing alumnus  hove  himself  out  of  his  chair, 
and  hammered  the  table  with  the  rudder 
of  the  winning  shell,  thoughtfully  lifted 
and  provided  by  the  able  Assistant  Man- 
ager. There  were  cheers  for  "Big  Bill" 


104          A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Hall,  of  the  73  crew,  more  cheers  for 
Yale,  and  before  the  uproar  was  quiet  his 
great  voice  rose  above  it  as  he  began  to 
speak.  Presiding  Judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  a  New  England  State  when  at 
home,  he  was  all  a  Yale  man  come  back  to 
his  own  upon  such  occasions  as  this,  and 
because  Yale  men  loved  him  they  called 
him  "Big  Bill." 

"When  we  get  into  the  big  world  be- 
yond the  campus,"  he  began,  "it  may  seem 
to  some  that  this  intensity  of  purpose,  this 
absorption  in  a  sport,  were  childish,  yet 
we  do  not  regret  those  convictions,  we  are 
proud  of  them,  for  these  same  qualities 
make  for  manhood  in  the  larger  duties  of 
a  wider  horizon.  And,  after  all,  are  the 
things  for  which  we  are  striving  in  after 
years  any  more  worth  while?  Are  they 
always  sweetened  and  uplifted  by  so  much 
devotion,  unselfishness,  loyalty,  and  sin- 
gleness of  purpose?  Are  they  thrilled  by 
as  fine  a  spirit  of  manliness?  We  hear  it 
said  that  the  old  Yale  spirit  is  losing  its 
savor,  that  men  are  working  for  them- 
selves rather  than  for  the  college,  that  they 
hold  in  light  esteem  things  that  were 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  105 

sacred  and  vital  to  us.  I  do  not  believe 
these  criticisms  are  true. 

"The  young  man  I  wished  most  to  see 
is  not  here  to-night.  He  would  not  come 
to  help  us  celebrate  a  victory  over  an 
ancient  and  honorable  foe.  He  believes 
that  he  has  lost  the  respect  of  his  comrades 
and  that  he  has  been  proven  a  failure. 
For  three  years  he  has  been  a  University 
oar.  This  season  he  could  not  keep  his 
weight  down  to  the  limit  of  former  years, 
he  found  that  he  could  not  keep  up  with 
the  eight — although  he  tried  as  never  be- 
fore— and  he  was  not  helping  the  crew. 
The  day  came  when  he  had  to  be  removed, 
and  he  experienced  as  bitter  disappoint- 
ment as  could  befall  a  young  man  of  spirit 
and  pluck.  The  coaches  and  captain  ex- 
pected that  he  would  throw  up  training, 
leave  the  Quarters  and  go  home.  It  was 
the  natural  thing  to  do,  because  he  was 
cut  to  the  soul,  and  it  was  like  attending 
his  own  funeral  services  to  hang  around 
the  place. 

"Without  a  word  he  slipped  into  the 
place  of  a  substitute,  and  did  a  substitute's 
work  as  long  as  there  was  need  of  it.  I 


106  A     VICTORY      UNFORESEEN 

venture  to  say  that  he  would  have  scrubbed 
out  the  boathouse  if  it  would  have  been  of 
service  to  the  crew.  Do  you  know  why 
he  took  this  stand?  Not  because  he  did 
not  care,  but  because  he  cared  so  much. 
When  he  offered  to  help  as  a  substitute 
he  said : 

"  'If  I  can  help  the  Yale  shell  to  go 
faster  by  being  out  of  it,  I  am  glad  of  it. 
That  is  what  I  am  rowing  for.  And  if  I 
can  be  of  any  use  as  a  substitute,  why,  that 
is  what  I  am  here  for,  too.  It  is  all  for 
Yale,  isn't  it?' 

"He  did  not  know  that  he  was  over- 
heard. It  was  not  meant  to  be  overheard. 
But  it  expressed  his  whole  attitude,  and 
he  stood  by  it  to  the  end.  You  youngsters 
who  licked  Harvard  to-day  deserve  all  the 
praise  and  rejoicing  that  comes  to  you. 
We  are  all  proud  of  you,  and  we  know 
how  hard  and  well  you  have  worked.  But 
while  you  are  the  heroes  of  this  celebra- 
tion, the  hero  did  not  row  with  you.  His 
name  is  'Jack'  Hastings,  the  man  who 
was  glad  to  help  a  Yale  crew  go  faster 
by  getting  out  of  it. 

"And  when  you  hear  it  said  that  the 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  107 

Yale  spirit  is  dying  out,  I  want  you  to 
think  of  that  remark.  That  man  absorbed 
the  spirit  right  here  that  made  him  take 
that  view  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was 
because  he  did  not  think  of  anything  else 
to  be  done  under  the  circumstances  that 
he  epitomized  the  spirit  that  will  make  this 
old  place  great  as  long  as  it  stands.  En- 
dowments and  imposing  buildings  can 
never  breed  that  spirit.  It  grows  and 
blossoms  as  the  fruitage  of  many  genera- 
tions of  tradition,  and  when  Yale  loses  it, 
she  is  become  an  empty  shell,  a  diploma 
factory,  and  no  longer  a  nursery  of  the 
right  kind  of  manhood  needed  in  this 
country. 

"Three  long  cheers  for  'Jack'  Hast- 
ings, who,  if  he  did  not  help  to  win  this 
race,  will  help  to  win  races  long  after  he 
is  gone  from  the  campus  world;  and  so 
long  as  his  words  are  remembered  Yale 
men  on  football  field,  on  track  and  dia- 
mond, and  on  the  dear  old  Thames  will 
feel  their  inspiration.  Are  you  ready?" 

The  men  rose  the  length  of  the  table 
and  shouted,  with  napkins  waved  on  high. 
Before  the  last  "rah,  rah,  rah,  Hastings, 


Io8          A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

Hastings,  Hastings,"  subsided,  the  As- 
sistant Manager  had  become  red  in  the 
face  and  exceedingly  uneasy.  He  wres- 
tled with  a  weighty  ethical  problem,  be- 
cause while  he  had  pledged  his  word  not 
to  reveal  the  secret  of  Hastings'  presence 
within  sight  and  sound  of  this  ovation,  he 
realized  that  to  lead  him  in  would  be  a 
crowning  and  dramatic  episode.  A  com- 
promise was  possible,  however,  and  he 
slipped  around  the  table  and  whispered 
in  the  ear  of  "Big  Bill"  HaU. 

In  the  gallery  the  little  mother  had 
shrunk  farther  back  into  the  shadows,  half 
afraid  of  this  uproar,  yet  happier  than 
ever  before  in  her  life.  She  looked  at  her 
boy,  sitting  close  beside  her,  his  face  hid- 
den so  that  she  could  not  see  the  illuminat- 
ing joy  in  it,  the  dazed  look  of  unreality, 
as  if  he  were  coming  through  dreamland. 
There  was  no  surprise  in  her  mind.  Of 
course,  this  triumph  was  no  more  than 
what  was  due,  and  she  could  have  hugged 
the  massive  chairman  as  a  person  of  ex- 
cellent discernment.  The  boy  whispered : 

"He  does  not  really  mean  it,  Mother. 
There  is  some  mistake.  He  has  been  out 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  109 

of  college  so  long  that  he  does  not  know 
what  things  mean." 

She  patted  his  burning  cheek  and  whis- 
pered : 

"Why,  I  knew  it  all  the  time.  But  you 
would  not  believe  it  if  your  mother  said 
you  were  a  hero.  I  wonder  how  the  Head 
Coach  feels  now?  I  wish  I " 

With  a  quick  leap  Jack  had  wrenched 
himself  away  and  was  clattering  down  the 
stairs.  He  had  seen  the  whispered  con- 
ference and  "Big  Bill"  Hall  staring  up  at 
the  gallery,  and  fearing  that  he  was 
trapped  and  betrayed,  he  fled  into  the 
street  and  was  running  for  the  nearest 
corner  before  the  Assistant  Manager 
could  pass  through  the  hall  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  The  conspirator  had  not 
promised  silence  regarding  Hastings' 
mother,  and  before  she  knew  what  was 
happening  he  was  by  her  side,  so  quickly 
that  she  thought  it  was  Jack  returned  to 
her.  As  she  looked  up  in  alarm,  the  As- 
sistant Manager  had  her  reluctant  hand, 
and  was  insisting  upon  leading  her  to  the 
railing  of  the  little  gallery.  She  gazed 
at  the  upturned  faces,  and  there  was  a 


110          A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

moment  of  expectant  silence.  Then 
Judge  Hall  shouted  the  command: 
"Three  long  cheers  for  Jack  Hastings' 
mother." 

She  was  trembling  now,  and  the  lights 
and  faces  below  swam  in  a  mist  of  tears, 
as  she  timidly  bowed.  Then,  as  the  full 
realization  of  the  tribute  swept  over  her 
like  an  engulfing  wave,  she  became  youth- 
fully erect,  she  smiled,  and  blew  kisses 
with  both  her  slender  hands  toward  the 
long  table.  She  was  thanking  them  in 
behalf  of  her  boy,  that  was  all,  because 
they  too  understood.  Certain  that  he 
must  be  waiting  not  far  away,  she  bowed 
again,  and  hurried  down  the  stairs,  meet- 
ing the  Head  Coach  in  the  hall.  His  face 
was  serious,  his  manner  abashed,  as  he 
said: 

"I  want  to  ask  whether  you  will  shake 
hands  with  me,  Mrs.  Hastings.  I  am 
proud  that  you  do  me  the  honor.  I  wish 
to  tell  you  something  more  than  you  have 
heard  to-night,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  it 
to  all  the  men,  when  I  return  to  the  room. 
Your  son  was  too  heavy  to  handle  himself 
as  well  as  he  did  last  year  and  the  year 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  III 

before.  But  I  believe  he  would  have 
rowed  in  the  race  if  a  mistake  had  not 
been  made.  I  found  out  when  it  was  too 
late  that  his  rigging,  or  measurements, 
in  the  shell  was  not  right  for  him,  and  it 
would  have  made  considerable  difference 
if  he  could  have  been  shifted  in  time.  It 
was  wholly  my  fault,  and  nobody  else  was 
to  blame  in  any  way.  I  can  never  make 
it  up  to  him,  and  my  only  consolation  is 
that  you  have  found  what  I  have  learned, 
that  he  is  a  good  deal  finer  man  than  we 
thought  him,  and  an  honor  to  Yale  be- 
yond all  the  rest  of  us.  You  must  hate 
me,  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
I  remember  how  my  mother  shared  my 
joys  and  sorrows  in  the  crew." 

The  mother  put  out  her  hand  again, 
and  clasped  that  of  the  Coach,  as  she  said 
simply,  but  with  a  catch  of  emotion  in  her 
voice: 

"I  did  hate  you  to-day.  I  thought  you 
had  broken  my  boy's  heart.  Now  I  have 
to  thank  you.  God's  ways  are  not  our 
ways,  and  I  rejoice  that  while  I  have  lost 
a  captain  of  the  crew,  I  have  gained  a 
man,  every  inch  of  him,  tried  in  the  fire 


112  A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

and  proven.  This  is  the  happiest  night 
of  my  life.  I  would  rather  have  heard  the 
speech  of  Judge  Hall,  and  the  cheers  that 
followed  it,  than  to  have  my  son  in  four 
winning  crews  and  captain  of  every  one 
of  them.  Of  course  he  is  a  hero.  Didn't 
you  know  that?" 

The  Head  Coach  started  to  speak,  when 
the  elbow  of  "  Big  BUI "  Hall  nudged 
him.  The  bulk  of  him  filled  the  pas- 
sage-way, and  his  voice  boomed  out  into 
the  night: 

"If  you  don't  bring  that  boy  around  to 
the  hotel  to  see  me  in  the  morning,  I  will 
take  back  all  I  have  said  about  him,  Mrs. 
Hastings.  Now  I  know  where  he  gets  all 
his  fine  qualities." 

She  blushed  and  courtesied,  and  the  two 
men  escorted  her  to  the  pavement,  as  John 
Hastings  slipped  from  a  doorway  across 
the  street  and  came  over  to  them.  His 
mother's  escort,  believing  that  he  had  been 
no  nearer  the  banquet  than  this,  made  a 
rush  for  him,  which  he  nimbly  dodged, 
and  slipped  his  mother's  arm  in  his. 

"He  is  mine  now,"  said  she.  "He  has 
a  previous  engagement,  and,  besides,  I 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  113 

don't  want  him  spoiled.  Good-night  to 
you.  Come  along,  Jack,  you  are  not  too 
big  to  mind  your  mother,  are  you?" 

The  two  walked  slowly  across  the 
Green  toward  the  campus.  The  com- 
munion of  their  uplifted  souls  was  per- 
fect, their  happiness  almost  beyond  words. 
She  was  first  to  break  this  rare,  sweet 
silence,  and  strangely  enough,  she  said 
nothing  about  the  vindication  and  the  tri- 
umph. Looking  up  into  his  face  she 
almost  whispered: 

"Are  you  caring  so  much  that  Cynthia 
disappointed  you  to-day,  dear  boy  of 
mine?  Does  it  hurt  and  rankle?  I  could 
see  it  in  your  eyes  to-night.  Do  you  want 
to  marry  her  very  much?  Are  you  sure  of 
your  heart?" 

He  winced  a  little  and  held  her  arm 
tighter  than  before,  as  he  replied : 

"Little  Mother,  it  has  been  my  first  real 
love  story,  as  you  know.  The  thought  of 
her  has  helped  me  over  many  a  rough 
place.  Before  to-day  she  was  always  so 
quick  to  understand.  And — and  she 
seemed  to  like  me  better  than  any  other 
fellow  she  knew.  I  was  fairly  aching  to 


114          A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN 

be  worthy  of  her,  to  make  my  place  in  the 
world  for  her.  I  wasn't  conceited  enough 
to  think  she  loved  me.  I  was  only  hoping 
that  some  day —  Any  man  has  a  right 
to  do  that,  has  he  not?" 

It  was  not  easy  for  the  mother  to  say 
what  she  wished  to  tell  him,  but  at  length 
her  response  was: 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  am  criti- 
cising her,  or  sitting  in  judgment,  but 
you  must  not  let  her  mar  your  faith  and 
hope  and  happiness.  I  want  to  help  you 
to  guard  those  precious  gifts.  You  must 
not  blame  her  too  much.  You  have  been 
believing  that  she  understood  you,  because 
you  would  have  it  that  way.  She  is  no 
older  than  you,  a  girl  of  twenty,  accus- 
tomed to  a  wholly  different  life  from 
yours.  She  was  flattered  by  your  atten- 
tion, for  you  were  a  great  man  in  her  eyes. 
She  liked  you  because  no  one  can  help 
liking  you.  But  it  made  a  difference 
when  you  were  a  hero  knocked  off  his 
pedestal.  And  yet  you  expected  to  find 
in  her  sympathy  a  balm  that  even  your 
mother  could  not  give.  Poor  lad,  moth- 
ers are  handy  sometimes,  but  most  boys 


A     VICTORY     UNFORESEEN  115 

do  not  find  it  out  until  their  mothers  are 
gone  from  them." 

"I  thought  I  knew  her  so  well,"  said  he, 
after  another  silence.  "It  looks  as  if  I 
had  amused  her  and  nothing  more.  But 
I  have  found  you,  and  I  have  fallen  head 
over  heels  in  love  with  you,  Little  Mother, 
all  over  again,  and  I  am  going  to  kiss  you 
right  under  this  electric  light." 

Even  yet  she  was  not  sure  that  she  had 
sounded  the  depths  of  the  ache  in  his 
heart,  but  as  she  looked  up  at  the  light  in 
his  campus  rooms  she  said  softly: 

"Some  day  you  will  understand,  and 
will  thank  God  your  mother  understood. 
He  giveth  you  the  victory  unforeseen." 


CORPORAL   SWEENEY, 
DESERTER 

'LL  be  gettin'  five  years — five  years 
at  least." 

The  surging  fear  became  fixed  in 
these  words,  and  they,  in  turn,  swung  in 
with  the  cadenced  tramp  of  Corporal 
Sweeney,  the  other  prisoner,  the  sentry, 
and  the  young  lieutenant  along  the  Chien- 
men  Road  toward  the  American  camp 
and  the  guard-house.  As  the  refrain 
rolled  itself  over  in  the  brain  of  the  cor- 
poral, he  discovered  that  he  was  mutter- 
ing it  aloud  when  the  other  prisoner  said 
explosively: 

"I  know  you  will,  and  so  will  I ;  but,  by 
,  I'm  going  to  make  a  run  for  it!" 

"You're  the  silliest  fool  in  Peking  if 
you  do,"  replied  the  corporal.  "An' 
where  would  you  be  after  runnin'  to?  No 
place  to " 

He  checked  himself  and  turned  his 
head.  The  sentry  and  the  lieutenant  were 

116 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  117 

at  their  heels,  but  in  the  clamor  of  the 
crowded  thoroughfare  the  talk  had  been 
unheard.  A  swirl  of  Chinese  street  mer- 
chants was  scattering  from  in  front  of  a 
German  wagon-train,  a  troop  of  Bengal 
Lancers  clattered  recklessly  into  the  ruck, 
and  the  road  flung  the  tangled  traffic  to 
and  fro  between  its  walls,  like  a  tide  in  a 
mill-race.  The  corporal  muttered  again 
to  the  scowling  man  beside  him : 

"Nothin'  doin'.  Sure  to  be  captured 
this  side  Tientsin.  Forget  it.  You're 
crazier  than  thim " 

A  shout  in  his  ear  made  him  jump  aside, 
and  he  saw  the  sentry  lurch  against  the 
flank  of  a  transport  camel  and  lose  his 
footing  as  a  cart-wheel  struck  him  from 
behind.  The  loaded  rifle  fell  on  the  cha- 
otic stone  flagging.  The  other  prisoner 
heard  the  crash  and  knew  what  it  meant. 
Here  seemed  the  chance  he  sought,  but 
instead  of  doubling  into  one  of  the 
crooked  side  streets,  he  broke  away  down 
the  middle  of  the  Chien-men  Road,  and 
the  traffic  opened  up  for  him,  as  the 
crowd,  grasping  as  by  instinct  what  was 
happening,  scattered  in  panic. 


Il8  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

The  young  lieutenant  whipped  his  re- 
volver from  its  holster  and  took  a  snap- 
shot at  thirty  yards,  not  caring  overmuch 
if  a  Chinese  got  in  range  of  the  heavy 
bullet.  As  he  fired,  the  fugitive  seemed 
to  trip  and  catch  himself,  then  ran  a  few 
steps  farther,  falling  all  the  time,  until  he 
crumpled  up  in  the  filthy  mud  of  the 
pavement.  The  lieutenant  stood  looking 
at  his  quarry,  his  eye  still  ranging  along 
the  barrel  of  the  revolver,  while  the  sentry 
had  picked  up  his  muddy  rifle,  and,  feel- 
ing faint  and  shaky,  watched  a  private  of 
his  own  regiment  become,  in  an  instant, 
something  that  looked  like  a  roll  of  blan- 
kets doubled  under  the  feet  of  the  Chinese 
street  mob. 

The  two  had  forgotten  the  corporal, 
who  stood  beside  them  as  intent  as  they 
upon  the  pitiable  tragedy;  and  the  three 
appeared  to  be  posing  for  a  military  tab- 
leau. But  almost  as  swiftly  as  death  had 
come  to  the  escaping  prisoner,  there  swept 
over  the  one  that  remained  a  frenzy  of 
desire  to  run.  He  knew  how  remote  was 
the  possibility  of  freedom,  how  desper- 
ately small  the  chance  against  recapture, 


The  flight  of  Corporal  Sweeney. 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  119 

dead  or  alive.  But  hammers  were  beating 
in  his  head  the  cadence  of  "I'll  be  gettin' 
five  years — five  years  at  least."  And  the 
opportunity  was  made  by  another's  un- 
willing sacrifice. 

The  corporal  was  unconscious  of  a  vol- 
untary act,  and  something  seemed  swiftly 
to  drag  him,  as  he  wheeled  and  dashed 
for  the  entrance  of  an  alley  not  more  than 
ten  yards  away.  A  peddler's  shoulder- 
yoke  was  splintered  against  his  shoulder, 
and  he  thought  that  the  bruising  impact 
was  the  shock  of  the  expected  bullet;  the 
yells  of  the  sweetmeat-sellers  at  the  alley's 
mouth  sounded  like  the  outcry  he  dreaded 
to  hear;  but  the  lieutenant  and  the  sentry 
turned  in  time  to  see  only  the  trail  of 
sprawling  Chinese  left  in  the  wake  of  the 
escaping  prisoner.  The  sentry  jumped 
in  pursuit,  stumbled  into  the  tortuous 
alley,  and  saw  a  blank  wall  ahead.  Be- 
tween that  and  the  Chien-men  Road  three 
lanes  twisted  off  to  left  and  right,  and  he 
ran  up  the  nearest  one  at  random. 

Somewhere  beyond  the  huddled  houses, 
he  could  hear  the  thud  of  leather-shod 
feet,  the  staccato  flight  of  which  marked 


120  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

the  trail  of  the  deserter;  but  the  pursuer 
could  find  no  way  through  or  around. 
When  he  entered  the  street  beyond,  there 
was  no  blue  overcoat  in  the  crowded  field 
of  vision,  and  the  shuffling  sound  of  felt- 
soled  native  shoes  gave  no  clew.  He  re- 
turned to  the  lieutenant,  genuinely  weary 
and  speciously  disappointed.  The  officer 
was  leaning  over  the  body  of  the  other 
prisoner,  and  there  was  keen  unhappiness 
in  his  flushed  young  face. 

"I've  found  an  empty  cart,"  he  said  to 
the  sentry.  "Help  me  carry  this  poor 
fellow  to  camp.  He  has  no  use  for  a 
doctor.  As  for  Sweeney,  he  can't  get 
away.  He's  hiding  in  the  American  sec- 
tion, and  I  will  get  the  provost-marshal 
over  the  field  'phone  from  headquarters, 
and  have  the  guard  sweep  the  district 
from  end  to  end.  The  man  will  be  cap- 
tured before  morning." 

This  occurred  to  the  fugitive,  also,  as 
certain  to  happen,  when  he  staggered 
through  a  little  courtyard,  far  in  the  heart 
of  the  "Chinese  City,"  and  f eU  into  a  cor- 
ner of  a  smoke-fogged  room.  It  was  so 
nearly  nightfall  that  the  one  occupant, 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  121 

failing  to  recognize  the  headlong  visitor, 
yelled  and  scuttled  away  from  the  brazier 
which  he  was  trying  to  coax  into  warmth 
against  the  winter  night. 

"It's  me — all  same  me — come  back. 
You  no  sabee  this  American  soldier  if 
men  come  to  look  see  me,"  gasped  the  cor- 
poral. 

The  Chinaman  nodded  without  speak- 
ing and  slipped  out.  Sweeney  was  fight- 
ing for  breath,  and  the  fumes  of  coal-gas 
in  the  fetid  room  were  suffocating  him. 
He  tore  a  hole  in  the  side  wall  of  oiled 
paper,  and  gulped  his  lungs  full  of  the 
frosty  night  air.  It  was  the  room  from 
which  he  had  gone  the  day  before,  when, 
after  drinking  much  Japanese  beer,  he 
had  bought  a  quart  of  samshu  to  carry 
away  with  him. 

It  was  the  deadly,  maddening  samshu 
that  had  caused  the  downfall  of  Corporal 
Sweeney,  and  now  he  was  trying  to  re- 
member what  had  happened  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours  before  he  had  been  marched 
down  the  Chien-men  Road  with  the  other 
prisoner.  He  knew  that  he  had  overstayed 
his  leave,  but  that  was  a  minor  matter 


122  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

compared  with  the  row  in  the  canteen  on 
Legation  Street.  He  recalled  that  an 
American  officer  had  entered  the  place  to 
investigate  the  uproar,  and  the  corporal's 
mind  held  a  blurred  picture  of  himself 
conspicuously  cursing  his  superior  officer 
with  black  oaths,  and  struggling  to 
"knock  the  face  off  him."  Then  he  had 
fled,  to  be  picked  up  later  by  the  lieuten- 
ant who  had  shot  and  killed  Private 
Smathers  on  the  way  to  camp. 

The  corporal  drew  back  from  the  hole 
in  the  paper  wall,  and  slumped  down  on 
the  floor,  a  Chinese  blue  blouse  tucked 
under  his  aching  head. 

"An'  five  years  more,  for  attempted 
escape,"  he  groaned,  "an'  two  clane  enlist- 
ments behind  me,  an'  promotion  a  cinch 
in  the  next  six  months.  Never  a  coort 

martial  ag'in'  me.  It  was  all  the  

samshu.  Serves  a  white  man  right  for 
foolin'  with  haythen  liquor.  An'  they'll 
be  pullin'  me  out  of  here  in  no  time  at  all. 
Holy  Mother!  where  kin  I  go?" 

The  disgraced  soldier  turned  as  a  new 
dread  smote  him. 

"An'  the  Boxer  swine  that  kapes  this 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  123 

poison-shop  will  be  handin'  me  over  as 
soon  as  he  hears  the  news  of  the  shindy 
down  the  Chien-men  Road." 

Panic  fear  caught  hold  of  the  corporal, 
body  and  soul,  and  he  wrestled  with  it  in 
the  darkness.  He  knew  not  whither  to 
turn.  Hiding  among  the  Chinese  in  the 
city  was  impossible,  and  to  take  to  the 
open  road  meant  capture  at  Tientsin  or 
Taku  if  he  made  his  way  that  far  in  a 
flight  toward  the  seacoast.  To  go  blindly 
into  the  country  about  Peking,  unarmed 
and  penniless  as  he  was,  knowing  perhaps 
five  words  of  Chinese,  was  to  drag  out  the 
finish  in  slow  starvation,  or  to  be  picked 
up  by  a  foreign  outpost,  or  to  fall  among 
hostile  natives.  He  was  as  helpless  as  a 
castaway  adrift  on  a  raft  in  mid-ocean. 
The  penalties  of  capture  or  surrender 
seemed  worse  than  any  sort  of  death,  for 
Corporal  Sweeney  had  been  a  good  sol- 
dier, bred  to  a  hardy  outdoor  life. 

The  disgrace  tortured  him,  and  either 
alternative  of  his  situation  was  unthink- 
able. Yet  after  three  hours  of  trembling 
in  his  trap,  he  would  have  welcomed  the 
chance  of  flight  into  the  open,  beyond  the 


124  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

walls  of  the  nightmare  city.  The  Chinese 
landlord  had  not  returned,  and  it  seemed 
likely  that  intruders  had  been  warned 
away  from  the  smoky  room  with  the  hole 
in  the  oiled  paper  of  the  side  wall.  The 
deserter  had  found  a  bottle  of  samshu, 
and  tried  to  brace  his  nerves  with  a  swal- 
low of  it,  but  the  smell  sickened  him,  and 
he  flung  it  against  the  brick  partition,  in 
a  passion  of  rage  at  the  source  of  his  cy- 
clonic ruin.  The  heavy,  yellow  liquid 
guttered  across  the  floor,  and  the  stench 
of  it  drove  the  soldier  into  the  courtyard, 
where  the  chatter  of  Chinese  voices  sent 
him  quaking  back  into  his  little  inferno. 

He  was  not  a  coward,  but  he  was  alone 
in  the  darkness  with  such  fears  as  wrested 
from  him  all  weapons.  Somewhere  out- 
side, a  Chinese  watchman,  drifting  along 
on  his  rounds,  was  beating  a  gong  to 
frighten  away  evil-doers.  The  measured 
bong,  bong,  bong  caused  the  fugitive 
to  wish  that  sudden  death  might  overtake 
the  harmless  old  gentleman,  for  at  each 
stroke  it  seemed  as  if  tacks  were  being 
driven  into  his  skull.  Toward  midnight 
Corporal  Sweeney  fell  into  a  stupor  of 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  I2J 

complete  exhaustion  that  was  no  more 
than  a  caricature  of  sleep.  A  scratching 
on  the  paper  door  and  a  falsetto  whisper 
awoke  him,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
striking  out  in  the  gloom,  to  ram  his  fist 
through  the  fragile  panel  into  something 
yielding  which  cried: 

"O-w-w — a-i-i!  Me,  master;  You  Han. 
Somet'ing  do-ing,  all  1-1-ight?" 

The  deserter  extended  a  muscular  arm, 
grasped  a  handful  of  wadded  coat,  and 
dragged  the  visitor  in  with  one  lightning 
sweep.  Then,  trying  to  choke  his  amazed 
voice  into  a  whisper,  he  croaked: 

"Oh,  me  cock-eyed  darlin'  lad!  An' 
how  did  you  dig  me  out?  I  niver  felt  like 
kissin'  a  Chink  before.  Now  get  me  out  o' 
this,  or  I'll  break  your  back  over  me  two 
knees.  I'm  down  an'  out  this  time.  Are 
you  goin'  to  give  me  up  for  the  sake  o' 
the  rewarrd?" 

The  boy,  whom  the  corporal  had  picked 
up,  a  starving  outcast  from  a  plundered 
village,  on  the  march  to  Peking,  tried  to 
tell  what  he  knew  in  painfully  Pidgin 
English,  shattered  by  his  master's  inter- 
ruptions. He  had  learned  that  the  cor- 


126  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

poral  was  a  day  overdue  in  camp,  and  had 
started  out  to  find  him  early  that  morn- 
ing. Then  came  the  tragedy  and  the  es- 
cape*, the  tidings  of  which  were  brought 
to  the  camp  with  the  body  of  Private 
Smathers.  You  Han  had  heard  the  name 
"Sweeney"  scattered  through  the  excited 
talk  of  the  company,  until  he  pieced  to- 
gether a  working  impression  of  what  had 
happened.  He  had  ransacked  canteens, 
tea-houses  and  gambling-dens  from  the 
camp  to  the  Tatar  city  wall  until  he  be- 
gan to  pick  up  the  trail  from  groups  at 
the  street  corners  who  had  seen  the  "mad- 
man runaway  soldier." 

The  corporal  chopped  the  narrative 
short,  because  he  was  not  interested  in 
the  way  of  his  fall  into  the  bottomless  pit, 
but  in  an  agony  of  speculation  regarding 
the  new  possibility  of  a  way  out.  The 
coming  of  You  Han  made  him  clutch  the 
hope  of  the  open  country,  anywhere,  any- 
how, no  matter  what  lay  beyond.  The 
thought  of  flight  alone  among  the  millions 
of  mysterious  aliens  had  oppressed  him 
horribly.  You  Han  had  the  fidelity  of  a 
dog  for  the  domineering  American  sol- 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  127 

dier,  whose  ways  he  did  not  understand, 
but,  because  they  were  his  ways,  they  were 
believed  to  be  impeccable.  Now  his  lord 
had  done  something  more  extraordinary 
than  usual,  for  which,  it  appeared,  decapi- 
tation threatened.  In  addition  to  blind 
obedience,  You  Han  knew  what  samshu 
was,  and  was  ready  to  make  large  allow- 
ances. It  was  only  this  new  tone  of 
entreaty,  almost  of  supplication,  that 
alarmed  the  servant.  Corporal  Sweeney 
shook  off  the  paralyzing  grip  of  his  fears 
long  enough  to  give  You  Han  orders  in 
a  voice  that  still  quavered  in  little  broken 
gasps: 

"You  get  Peking  cart,  quick?  Qui- 
qui — chop-chop — chase  yourself — sabee? 
Have  you  got  any  money  in  thim  flowin' 
robes?" 

You  Han  flashed  a  bisecting  grin  that 
was  like  splitting  a  sheet  of  parchment, 
and  dove  into  a  knotted  sash,  where  the 
clink  of  silver  made  reply.  Then  he  was 
gone,  and  the  deserter  became  instantly 
submerged  in  the  returning  rush  of  his 
manifold  terrors.  It  seemed  years  before 
he  heard  the  protesting  shrieks  of  a  cart 


128  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

axle  and  the  rattle  of  harness  in  the  com- 
pound. You  Han  stole  in,  and  half 
dragging  the  corporal  to  the  cart,  helped 
him  to  crawl  under  the  curtained  hood, 
whispering: 

"One  piecee  cart  belong  my  cousin.  No 
pay  him.  You  stay  bottom  side.  We  go 
countlee." 

As  the  cart  jolted  into  the  alley,  the 
man  beneath  the  cover  heard,  faint  and 
far,  the  beat  of  cavalry  hoofs  on  the 
frozen  earth.  They  were  coming  nearer, 
and  the  fugitive  flattened  himself  under 
a  pile  of  quilts,  while  the  sweat  beaded  on 
his  face.  In  a  few  moments  the  clink  of 
sabers  and  the  creaking  of  saddle-leathers 
were  audible,  and  the  patrol  wheeled  into 
a  side  street  so  close  to  the  jogging  cart 
that  the  deserter  caught  the  voice  of  a 
Sixth  Cavalry  trooper  objecting: 

"It's  a  blazin'  cold  night  to  be  pokin' 
in  all  the  rat-holes  of  Peking  for  as  good 
a  blank-blanked  son  of  a  gun  as  Jack 
Sweeney.  Wonder  how  he  got  up  against 
it  so  hard." 

The  reply  was  lost,  for  the  deserter's 
heart  was  whanging  against  his  ribs  and 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  I2Q 

sounding  louder  to  him  than  the  clatter  of 
cavalry.  You  Han  drove  the  mule  at  a 
gallop  and  said  no  word  except  once, 
when  he  turned  and  remarked: 

"Samshu  no  good,  master.  Floget  it. 
Dlink  water,  all  1-1-ight." 

At  daylight  the  cart  was  beyond  the 
outer  wall  of  Peking,  heading  west,  as 
aimless  a  derelict  as  ever  tossed  in  un- 
charted seas.  You  Han  did  not  veer  to- 
ward his  own  home  on  the  Pei-ho,  for  he 
knew  that  it  lay  in  the  track  of  the  traffic 
to  Tientsin,  and  that  over  the  ruins  of  his 
village  floated  the  flag  of  an  American 
infantry  outpost.  The  dawn  came  clear 
and  cold,  but  sad  in  the  gray  aspect  of 
tenantless  villages,  and  the  litter  of  un- 
garnered  millet-fields  stretching  over  the 
flat  lands  to  the  horizon.  The  driver  told 
the  deserter  that  the  last  foreign  outpost 
had  been  passed,  and  that  he  might  get 
out  and  walk  with  safety.  Half  frozen, 
bitterly  bruised  from  tossing  between 
floor  and  roof  of  the  springless  cart,  hun- 
gry and  weak,  the  deserter  climbed  from 
his  ignominious  hiding-place  and  trudged 
in  silence  along  the  rutted  highway.  Pres- 


130  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

ently  You  Han  turned  off  the  road, 
threaded  a  course  through  the  yards  of  a 
shattered  temple,  and  drew  up  by  a  mar- 
ble altar. 

"Have  chow  now,"  said  he,  and  the 
summons  to  breakfast  aroused  a  shadow 
of  animation  in  the  deserter.  He  knew 
not  where  the  meal  was  coming  from,  but 
he  was  past  wondering,  and  the  Chinese 
youth  was  in  full  command  of  the  sorry 
expedition.  You  Han  crawled  into  the 
cart  and  produced  a  charcoal  stove,  dried 
fish,  potatoes,  and  a  teapot. 

"All  belong  my  cousin.  He  keep  store ; 
pay  bimeby,"  said  the  boy,  with  what 
might  have  passed  for  a  wink. 

The  companions  ate  in  silence.  Shame 
had  begun  to  march  in  the  foreground  of 
the  deserter's  thoughts,  crowding  fear  a 
little  to  the  rear.  The  soldier  of  a  con- 
quering race  was  as  helpless  as  a  child  in 
the  hands  of  one  of  the  conquered  whom 
he  had  not  considered  wholly  human, 
whose  swarms  had  fled  like  rats  before  the 
path  of  the  columns  in  khaki.  The  fugi- 
tive cursed  and  hated  himself,  possessed 
by  an  unmanly  humiliation  impossible  to 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  131 

imagine  a  few  hours  before.  The  little 
dun  mule  munched  dry  millet-stalks,  and 
squealed  when  You  Han  fetched  him 
water  from  the  temple  well. 

"I  ain't  got  as  much  sand  left  in  me 
as  that  sawed-off  apology  fer  a  mule," 
groaned  the  corporal;  "an'  he's  a  good 
deal  more  of  a  man  than  meself ." 

You  Han  resumed  the  march  without 
consulting  his  lord,  which  made  the  de- 
serter writhe  anew,  but  he  could  say  noth- 
ing. The  cart  trailed  along  the  foot  of 
an  ancient  military  wall  for  several  miles, 
while  the  man  sullenly  chewed  the  cud  of 
bitterness  and  the  boy  revolved  great 
things  in  his  unruffled  mind.  You  Han 
was  about  to  venture  on  some  fragmen- 
tary consolation,  when  the  deserter,  who 
was  walking  a  little  in  advance,  balked 
in  his  tracks  and  stood  crouched  as  if  he 
had  seen  a  rattlesnake.  The  dun  mule 
snorted  and  fanned  his  ears  like  an  agi- 
tated jack-rabbit.  A  furlong  beyond,  the 
steel  ribbons  of  a  railway  track  cut  across 
the  road  and  vanished  in  sandy  cuttings. 
Corporal  Sweeney  looked  instinctively 
for  a  telegraph  line  and  saw  one  wire 


132  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

threading  the  skyline  in  a  humming  loop. 
The  sight  hurled  him  back  to  the  Chien- 
men  Road  and  the  lieutenant  alertly  pick- 
ing off  Private  Smathers  with  a  long 
snap-shot. 

"What's  this  fool  railroad  doin'  here? 
I  wonder  are  they  consthructin'  it  to  ketch 
up  with  me?  Come  a-runnin'  there 
pronto,*  chop-chop.  Ain't  there  no  get- 
tin'  away  from  annywhere?" 

He  volleyed  the  questions  at  You  Han 
as  if  they  had  been  jerked  out  of  him. 
The  boy  looked  puzzled  as  he  replied : 

"Devil  cart  go  Pao-ting-fu,  then  go 
Peking.  No  belong  to  Amelican  soldier. 
English  have  got." 

They  crossed  the  rails  on  the  run,  as  if 
the  metals  burned  their  feet,  and  the  de- 
serter flogged  the  mule  into  a  gallop,  un- 
til their  road  twisted  beyond  sight  of  the 
track  and  its  unexpected  autograph  of  a 
civilization  they  were  fleeing  headlong. 
He  would  not  have  dared  predict  it,  but 
in  the  afternoon  Corporal  Sweeney  began 
to  be  a  man  again.  They  had  passed  be- 

*  Soldiers  who  have  campaigned  in  the  Philippines  use 
the  word  pronto  for  "hurry  up"  or  "hustle." 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  133 

yond  the  area  laid  waste  by  the  Christian 
allies,  and  the  villages  were  populous  and 
busy.  You  Han  had  glimpsed  a  shadow 
of  the  shame  that  smoldered  in  his  mas- 
ter's mind,  and  he  was  for  making  little 
overtures,  simple  yet  crafty,  to  win  him 
back  to  himself.  As  the  first  step  in  recon- 
struction, he  called  "Look-see,  master!" 
and  pulled  from  beneath  the  body  of  the 
cart  a  "Krag"  rifle,  bayonet,  and  car- 
tridge-belt. The  deserter  threw  back  his 
shoulders  at  sight  of  them,  and  in  an  out- 
burst of  gratitude  smote  his  benefactor  so 
that  his  head  ached  for  several  hours. 

"Last  night,  when  get  cart,  go  back 
camp,"  twittered  You  Han;  "find  one 
piecee  master's  gun  in  tent.  Plenty  dark. 
Sently  shoot,  no  can  hit.  Good,  by  golly !" 

"Good!  you  twenty-four  carat  jewel  of 
Asia!  You're  the  goodest  imitation  of  a 
white  man  that  was  ever  bound  in  yeller 
leather  by  mistake.  Now  I  feel  as  if  I 
wanst  looked  like  a  man  meself .  Give  me 
a  rag  an'  a  bit  o'  that  stinkin'  cookin'- 
grease,  an'  make  room  on  the  carrt  till  I 
do  up  me  house-cleanin'." 

You  Han  grinned  and  began  to  wail  an 


134  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

interminable  song  about  a  girl  called 
"Little  Fat  Spring  Fragrance,"  who 
lived  in  the  "Village  of  the  Wise  and 
Benevolent  Magistrate."  The  ballad  rose 
shriller  as  the  singer  saw  the  corporal 
swinging  along  ahead,  his  rifle  nestling 
on  his  squared  shoulder  as  if  it  had  come 
home  to  its  own,  his  back  as  flat  as  a  board. 
You  Han  was  even  more  jubilant  when 
his  master  spun  on  his  heel,  and  shouted 
with  the  rasp  of  the  drill-ground  in  his 
voice : 

"Shut  up  that  racket!  It's  worse  'n  the 
carrt  axle." 

The  bracing  wind  swept  keen  out  of  the 
Siberian  north,  and  sunshine  flooded  from 
a  cloudless  sky.  The  deserter  forgot  much 
of  his  weariness,  and  caught  himself  whis- 
tling "assembly,"  but  broke  off  with  a 
groan. 

Toward  sunset  the  surrounding  wall  of 
a  village  was  outlined  like  a  rocky  island 
in  the  level  plain.  You  Han  halted  a 
ragged  wayfarer,  and  coaxingly  address- 
ing him  as  "great  elder  brother,"  dragged 
forth  the  information  that  the  town  was 
of  considerable  size,  and  that  in  it  was  the 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  135 

residence  of  the  ruler  of  the  district.  The 
song  of  the  "Village  of  the  Wise  and 
Benevolent  Magistrate"  had  suggested 
an  inspiration  whose  magnitude  made 
You  Han  gasp.  But  he  took  possession 
of  it  without  flinching,  and  when  they 
were  within  a  mile  of  the  gateway  in  the 
wall  he  said  to  the  deserter: 

"You  wait.    I  go  look-see." 

The  mule  browsed  by  the  roadside,  the 
corporal  sprawled  near  by,  and  the  brave 
figure  in  blue  cotton  trudged  on  alone  to 
the  town,  the  strangeness  of  which  made 
his  heart  flutter.  He  swaggered  in  past 
the  outer  wall,  searched  out  the  yamen  of 
the  district  magistrate,  and  that  dignitary 
graciously  consented  to  see  the  importu- 
nate pilgrim.  You  Han  kotowed  before 
the  heart-quaking  presence  in  the  gilded 
audience-room,  and  with  wailing  stammer 
delivered  the  oration  composed  on  the 
cart: 

"An  illustrious  and  most  honorable 
general  of  the  foreign  soldiers  comes  to 
visit  your  beautiful  city.  I  am  his  insig- 
nificant and  thrice-despised  servant.  This 
valiant  and  inexpressibly  distinguished 


1 36  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

hero  is  of  the  Americans,  who  protect  and 
do  not  plunder  and  destroy.  He  comes 
to  extend  peace  and  protecting  power  to 
your  Heavenly  Presence,  and  to  learn 
whether  you  have  been  molested  by  other 
foreign-devil  armies,  whom  he  will  swiftly 
punish  if  it  be  your  august  pleasure  to 
ask  it.  My  insufferably  benevolent  mas- 
ter leaves  soldiers,  cannon,  horses  behind 
him,  lest  he  terrify  the  country  round 
about,  already  in  fear  of  the  devastating 
foreign  fighting-men.  He  sends  the  greet- 
ings of  one  ruler  to  another,  and  also  his 
card." 

You  Han  bobbed  his  head  to  the  floor 
by  way  of  incessant  punctuation,  and 
watching  eagerly  from  the  tail  of  his  eye 
for  results  hopeful  or  otherwise,  laid  be- 
fore the  magistrate  the  vivid  label  of  a  tin 
of  "Army  Cut  Plug,"  on  which  heroes  in 
blue  and  khaki  posed  nonchalantly  in  a 
"baptism  of  fire."  A  group  of  official 
servants,  crowding  within  ear-shot,  saw 
a  gleam  of  surprised  pleasure  twinkle 
through  the  huge  spectacles  of  their  ruler. 
They  took  their  cue,  and  helping  the 
trembling  You  Han  to  his  feet,  were  soon 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  137 

bustling  through  the  courtyard,  propelled 
by  vehement  commands  to  make  haste. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  deserter  saw  ap- 
proaching a  procession  led  by  You  Han 
and  a  squad  of  yamen  runners,  whom  he 
knew  by  the  red  tassels  on  their  flat  hats. 
These  rode  shaggy  rats  of  ponies,  and  be- 
hind them  tailed  off  scores  of  villagers  on 
foot  and  convoys  of  squealing  children. 
The  American  grabbed  his  rifle  and 
dodged  behind  the  cart,  ready  to  run  or 
open  fire,  until  he  heard  You  Han's  shrill 
shouts  of  reassurance.  Then  he  was 
swept  up  in  an  admiring  throng,  whose 
bodies  doubled  in  homage,  down  to  the 
wee  tots  who  fell  on  their  flat  noses  when 
they  tried  to  kotow. 

You  Han  had  no  time  for  explanations. 
He  was  expanding  in  the  reflected  glory 
of  his  own  devising,  and  busy  chasing  chil- 
dren from  under  the  agile  hoofs  of  the 
ponies.  In  their  layers  of  wadded  coats, 
like  so  many  puiFballs,  the  jolly  young- 
sters rolled  to  the  roadside,  and  the  de- 
serter felt  a  stir  of  emotion  which  he  could 
not  have  defined.  Yes,  there  were  homes 
and  firesides  and  mothers  and  play  and 


138  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

work  and  love  in  this  land  of  desolation, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  village  hearths  beck- 
oned with  vague  homeliness. 

The  shopkeepers  left  their  wares  and 
the  old  men  in  the  doorways  tucked  away 
their  pipes  when  the  procession  filled  the 
little  streets,  and  the  deserter  rode  to 
the  yamen  like  a  conquering  hero.  In  the 
courtyard  of  the  compound  other  servants 
waited  to  escort  the  "benevolent  foreign 
general"  to  rooms  made  ready  for  him. 
There  was  fire  in  the  brick  kang,  or  sleep- 
ing-platform, and  chickens,  eggs,  fruit 
and  potatoes,  and  a  fur-lined  robe  were 
heaped  on  a  table.  You  Han  vanished,  and 
the  outlaw  sat  himself  down  in  speechless 
wonderment.  Presently  You  Han  re- 
turned and  announced  that  the  magistrate 
would  be  inexpressibly  honored  to  receive 
the  Personage  in  the  evening,  and  the 
reason  for  not  inviting  him  to  dine  was 
that  he  knew  the  guest  would  prefer  his 
food  prepared  after  his  own  strange 
fashion  by  his  own  servant.  As  in  a  gor- 
geous dream  the  deserter  dined,  with  three 
attendants  squabbling  with  You  Han  for 
the  honor  of  passing  each  dish.  Then  he 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  139 

brushed  his  dusty  leggings  and  blue 
clothes  and  summoned  a  barber. 

A  little  later  the  guest  was  greeted  as  a 
person  of  rare  distinction  by  the  dignified 
elderly  gentleman  in  red-silk  robes  who 
ruled  and  "squeezed"  the  district.  The 
corporal  rose  grandly  to  the  occasion. 
The  two  mingled  to  a  nicety  their  mutual 
attitudes  of  respect,  cordiality,  protection. 
They  talked  laboriously  through  the 
doubtful  medium  of  the  overpowered 
You  Han,  whom  the  intricacies  of  the 
mandarin  dialect  bowled  over  from  the 
one  side,  and  on  the  other  such  instruc- 
tions as  these  from  the  corporal : 

"Tell  old  Four-Eyes  that  I'm  the  per- 
sonal ripresintative  of  George  Washing- 
ton and  Gineral  Grant,  an'  that  when  I 
stamp  me  fut  a  million  brave  soldiers 
trimble  violently ;  but  that  because  I  know 
a  great  intellect  when  I  see  one,  me  heart 
is  swelled  with  pride  to  sit  down  and  talk 
it  over  as  man  to  man.  Poke  that  into  him 
good  and  har-r-d." 

The  official  volleyed  many  questions, 
and  the  deserter  parried  what  fragments 
of  them  You  Han  was  able  to  pass  along. 


140  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

A  military  escort  to  the  next  village  was 
offered,  but  the  guest  declined  with  polite 
emphasis.  He  was  not  seeking  ostenta- 
tion in  public.  When  he  went  to  his  apart- 
ments after  a  surfeit  of  cakes,  wine,  and 
tobacco,  Corporal  John  Sweeney  rubbed 
his  close-cropped  head  and  puzzled  over 
his  identity.  As  he  curled  up  on  the 
warm  brick  kang,  he  was  a  deserter  fast 
becoming  reconciled  to  his  fate. 

"It  strains  the  rivets  of  me  imagination 
to  believe  it's  rale.  I  hope  there's  more 
miracles  in  stock  where  this  one  was  pro- 
juced,"  he  murmured  sleepily. 

Just  at  dawn  he  awoke.  There  was  a 
clatter  of  voices  in  the  courtyard,  and  the 
sound  of  horses  moving  hurriedly.  Pres- 
ently the  paper  of  the  latticed  wall  was 
ripped,  and  a  brown  finger  popped 
through.  All  the  fears  of  the  refugee 
came  trooping  back  with  squadrons  re- 
inforced. He  ripped  the  door  open,  rifle 
in  hand.  A  string  of  traders'  ponies  was 
filing  out  for  an  early  start  toward  Pe- 
king, and  a  hostler  stood  with  his  face 
pressed  against  the  hole  in  the  wall,  try- 
ing to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  lordly  for- 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  141 

eigner.  That  was  all.  But  the  deserter 
saw  again  the  smoky  room  in  the  "Chinese 
City,"  and  heard  the  Sixth  Cavalry  squad 
wheel  just  in  rear  of  his  frantic  flight. 
The  "illustrious  guest"  was  again  the 
fugitive,  escaping,  he  knew  not  whither, 
from  "five  years — five  years  at  least." 

He  kicked  the  sleeping  You  Han  into 
action,  and  the  cart  was  under  way  as  soon 
as  the  mule  had  fed. 

"Only  thirty  miles  from  Peking," 
growled  the  corporal;  "not  half  far 
enough.  An'  cavalry  is  prancin'  out  to 
loot,  pacify,  an'  scatter  Christian  bless- 
ings with  th'  mailed  fisht  where  they  have 
no  business  to  be  thinkin'  of.  I  hike  till 
I  drop,  an'  that's  me  ultimatum." 

They  pressed  on  all  day  until  the  dun 
mule  swayed  in  the  shafts  and  the  pil- 
grims were  ready  to  drop  by  the  roadside. 
The  night  was  passed  in  a  village  tavern, 
for  You  Han  was  too  weary  to  organize 
a  reception.  The  deserter  slept  fitfully, 
and  awoke  often  talking  to  himself. 
Nervous  and  footsore,  he  took  the  trail  at 
dawn  of  the  third  day,  You  Han  watchful 
and  worried.  As  the  deserter  turned  fre- 


142  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

quently  to  look  behind  him,  the  aspect  of 
the  future  crushed  him,  while  the  immi- 
nent past  lashed  him  to  persistent  flight. 
Camp,  and  the  close  comradeship  of  men 
in  blue  and  khaki ;  the  routine  round  of  his 
army  years;  the  Chicago  streets  that  had 
known  his  boyhood ;  the  father  and  mother 
who  were  proud  of  his  record — these  and 
all  other  links  in  the  chain  of  his  thirty 
years  were  as  if  they  had  never  been 
forged.  Names,  faces  and  scenes  of  which 
he  had  been  an  intimate  part  were  in  an 
obliterating  distance,  and  nothing  that  had 
gone  before  was  given  strength  to  follow 
him,  except  the  incidents  of  his  escape, 
and  these  filled  all  the  landscape  with  por- 
tents. 

Soon  they  came  to  a  schoolhouse  in  the 
middle  of  a  tiny  hamlet.  You  Han  knew 
it  for  such  when  the  refugees  were  rods 
away,  since  from  the  squat  building  came 
an  incessant  sound  like  the  hum  of  a 
gigantic  top.  The  children  were  reciting 
their  daily  task  from  the  Confucian  Ana- 
lects at  the  limit  of  their  lung  power,  when 
the  foreigner  was  spied  by  a  truant  out- 
post, and  the  teacher  could  not  hold  the 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  143 

clamorous  flock  in  leash.  By  scores  they 
tumbled  out  to  scamper  off  in  terror  until 
You  Han  shouted  his  message  of  good 
will  and  the  corporal  laughed,  threw  down 
his  rifle,  and  became  one  of  them.  It  was 
not  long  before  uproarious  applause 
greeted  his  attempts  to  play  jackstones 
and  strike  the  sharpened  stick  to  make 
it  fly  into  the  miniature  mud-pie  "city." 

Again  the  feeling  of  homeliness  tugged 
at  his  heart,  and  he  lingered  among  the 
children  until  the  teacher  gathered  them 
in,  with  labor  like  that  of  collecting  spilled 
quicksilver. 

You  Han  swaggered  into  the  next  vil- 
lage beyond,  with  a  port  inspired  by  re- 
membrance of  the  magistrate's  yamen,  but 
he  came  to  grief  at  the  hands  of  the  village 
bully.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  char- 
acter of  this  truculent  ruffian.  His  gar- 
ments were  studiously  awry,  and  his  queue 
was  loosely  braided  and  coiled  around  his 
neck  to  show  that  he  thirsted  for  combat. 
He  resented  the  lofty  bearing  of  the 
stranger,  and  the  two  clashed  with  disaster 
to  the  features  of  You  Han,  who  was 
plucky  but  overmatched.  He  was  rescued 


144  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

by  the  corporal,  who  gave  the  bully  the 
worst  beating  of  his  career.  The  feat  was 
applauded  by  a  throng  of  villagers  whose 
peace  had  been  much  disturbed  by  this 
chronic  nuisance,  and  they  feasted  the 
hero  at  the  house  of  the  head  man  with 
complex  and  effusive  hospitality.  The 
wayfarers  were  pressed  to  stay  and  make 
the  town  their  home  for  life. 

This  incident,  coming  in  a  sequence  of 
revelations  of  the  life  of  this  hitherto  de- 
spised people,  set  the  thoughts  of  the 
deserter  definitely  into  a  new  and  hopeful 
channel. 

"I  begin  to  think,"  he  said  to  You  Han, 
"that  I  could  stick  it  out  in  one  of  these 
back  counties,  at  worst  until  the  troops  are 
Favin'  China  in  the  spring.  An'  I  could 
come  pretty  near  to  runnin'  a  town  or  two 
meself.  One  more  day's  march  an'  1*11 
risk  stakin'  out  a  claim  for  a  while.  An' 
I'll  be  a  leadin'  an'  dignified  citizen,  an' 
grandfather  by  brevet  to  all  the  kids  in 
the  camp." 

The  advance  was  checked  by  the  dis- 
covery that  the  cart  axle  had  split  and 
must  be  repaired  to  prevent  a  breakdown 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  145 

over  the  next  bit  of  rough  going.  The 
corporal  was  in  a  bluster  of  impatience  to 
press  forward.  Delay  had  not  lost  its 
power  to  frighten  him.  The  next  village 
lay  ten  miles  beyond,  but  between  was  a 
desolate  stretch  of  waste  land  in  which  no 
one  lived,  in  which  nothing  grew.  From 
the  tiled  roof  of  the  tavern  the  corporal 
could  see  this  little  desert  rolling  like  a 
lake  almost  from  the  village  walls  to  the 
sky  line.  It  caught  his  fancy  with  a  huge 
onset  of  relief.  Once  beyond  this  barrier, 
he  would  feel  secure  against  discovery, 
and  he  magnified  it  as  the  borderland  of 
safety.  You  Han  was  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  voluble  citizens  who  urged  wait- 
ing two  days  until  a  new  axle  could  be 
hewn  from  the  solid  tree;  but  the  de- 
serter exploded  the  conference  by  shout- 
ing: 

"Dump  the  carrt  here.  Pack  the  mule, 
an'  we'll  send  back  for  the  Noah's  ark 
when  we  get  settled  over  beyant.  Make 
haste  an'  upholster  the  mule  with  the  bag- 
gage of  light  marchin'  order." 

When  the  dun  mule,  in  tow  of  the  boy, 
limped  out  of  the  gateway  across  the 


146  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

crumbling  moat,  its  small  hoofs  sank  to 
the  fetlock  in  white  sand,  and  the  trail  of 
cart-wheels  winding  across  the  plain  shim- 
mered in  an  aching  dazzle  of  sunlight.  At 
the  end  of  an  hour  the  village  behind  them 
was  a  brown  smudge  not  more  than  two 
miles  distant.  The  deserter  made  peevish 
comments,  but  there  was  cheerfulness  in 
the  crack  of  his  profanity,  as  he  plodded 
painfully  ahead  of  the  boy  and  the  mule. 
Whenever  they  paused  to  rest  he  talked 
to  You  Han,  not  caring  whether  the  boy 
understood  one  word  in  five.  The  two 
seemed  alone  in  all  the  world ;  their  calam- 
itous fortunes  were  more  closely  knit  than 
at  any  time  in  the  flight;  and  hope  lay 
somewhere  beyond  this  barricade  provided 
by  a  fate  grown  strangely  kind. 

"You'll  have  the  next  week  to  get  the 
sand  out  o'  thim  foolish  shoes  o'  yourn," 
observed  the  corporal.  "An'  me  blisters 
will  be  attinded  to  by  the  chief  surgeon  of 
the  county.  Like  chickens  an'  silk  over- 
coats, my  son?  We're  goin'  hell-bent 
for  the  comforts  of  life  by  the  carrt- 
load." 

You  Han  talked  to  the  mule  in  encour- 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  147 

aging  whistles  and  replied,  "Can  do,"  to 
the  monologue  of  the  corporal,  who  ram- 
bled on : 

"Say,  thim  kids  did  me  more  good  than 
a  barrel  o'  monkeys.  Weren't  they  cork- 
ers? By  the  holy  poker!  I'm  goin'  to 
marry  you  off  to  a  little  squeeze-toed  fairy 
in  the  big  town  over  the  way,  an'  you'll 
live  without  worrkin'  f  orevermore.  May- 
be the  old  man  will  follow  suit.  It's  me 
life  ambition  to  be  idle  an'  palatial.  An' 
You  Han  will  be  the  hottest  sport  in  fifty 
li.  Dinghowdy?  All  right?" 

In  the  third  hour  they  were  not  more 
than  halfway  across,  and  the  short  winter 
afternoon  was  reddening.  The  level  deso- 
lation had  begun  to  tumble  up  into  crowd- 
ing little  hills  and  sand  barriers  among 
which  the  trail  now  and  then  entangled 
itself.  But  the  air  was  crystal  and  wind- 
less, and  scrambling  to  the  top  of  one  of 
the  white  hills,  the  corporal  could  see  the 
faintest  tracery  of  a  towered  temple  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  desert  as  a  guiding 
landmark.  It  was  a  forced  march,  and  a 
halt  was  made  only  for  a  fragment  of  sup- 
per and  a  swig  for  man  and  mule  from 


148  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

the  water-bottle  on  the  pack.  The  moon 
rose  in  the  sleeping  dusk,  but  before  it  was 
clear  of  the  scalloping  ridges  of  sand  the 
sky  became  spattered  with  rags  of  flying 
cloud.  Presently  the  wind  behind  the 
angry  scud  began  to  pick  up  gusts  of 
sand  and  flirt  them  from  one  crest  to  an- 
other. The  travelers  rubbed  their  eyes 
and  coughed  as  they  plowed  steadily  west- 
ward, steering  a  course  by  the  cart-trail, 
still  discernible,  and  by  the  moon  behind 
them.  "We're  more  'n  halfway  over," 
shouted  the  corporal,  "an'  it's  silly  to  be 
dr'amin'  of  losin'  ourselves  in  this  two-by- 
four  desert." 

Then  the  gray  sky  closed  down  in  black- 
ness everywhere,  and  leaping  billows  of 
sand  seemed  to  meet  it.  The  rush  of  the 
terrific  wind  wiped  out  the  trail  as  if  it 
had  been  no  more  than  a  finger-mark. 
There  were  no  more  hills  nor  winding  pas- 
sages among  them,  only  a  fog  of  whirling 
sand.  The  wind  had  an  icy  edge  as  it 
brought  the  killing  cold  of  Mongolian 
steppes  a  thousand  miles  away.  The  de- 
serter and  the  boy  covered  their  faces 
with  their  hands,  their  garments;  and  al- 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  149 

most  instantly  they  were  adrift,  cowering, 
lost,  helpless.  So  dense  was  the  driving 
smother  of  sand  that  they  could  scarcely 
see  the  mule  straining  at  the  end  of  its 
halter-rope.  The  hillocks  were  shifting 
with  a  complaining  roar,  and  the  shriek  of 
the  wind  in  mid-air  was  pierced  with  a 
shrill  rasp  like  the  commotion  of  innu- 
merable iron  filings. 

The  corporal  and  You  Han  groped 
toward  the  side  of  a  hillock,  seeking  a  lee ; 
but  the  flooding  sand  tumbled  down  its 
side  knee-deep,  and  the  wind  sucked  round 
and  searched  them  out,  as  if  in  chase.  The 
flinty  particles  pelted  in  sheets,  and  bit 
their  faces  like  incessant  volleys  of  fine 
shot.  There  was  no  more  time  to  think  of 
what  should  be  done  than  when  a  swimmer 
is  plunged  over  a  dam. 

It  did  not  seem  possible  that  the  danger 
of  death  was  menacing  in  this  absurdly 
small  theater  of  action,  yet  it  could  not 
have  been  many  moments  before  the  de- 
serter began  to  realize  where  lay  the  odds 
in  another  hour's  exposure  to  such  a  storm. 
All  sense  of  direction  had  been  snatched 
from  him,  and  he  fought  only  for  breath. 


150  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

You  Han  had  no  knowledge  of  desert 
storms  in  his  home  on  the  bank  of  the  Pei- 
ho.  He  gasped  whatever  prayers  came  to 
him,  but  placed  his  active  faith,  still  un- 
shaken, in  the  ability  of  his  master  to  save 
him  from  the  choking,  freezing  terror. 
The  man  and  the  boy  were  not  only  stifled, 
but  soon  benumbed,  for  neither  had  ever 
felt  anything  to  compare  with  the  search- 
ing cold  of  this  blast.  They  stumbled 
from  one  hill  to  another,  sometimes  keep- 
ing their  feet,  falling  of tener,  rising  more 
slowly,  the  little  mule  trying  in  vain  to 
turn  tail  to  the  storm. 

There  could  be  no  conversation.  At 
length  the  deserter  muttered  drowsily  to 
the  storm  such  fragments  as  these : 

"No  place  like  home.  It's  the  finish 
that's  comin'  to  me.  Cudn't  take  me  medi- 
cine like  a  man.  P'rhaps  this  '11  blow 
over  soon.  I'm  blinded  entirely.  Good 
God!  forgive  me  poor  cowardly  sowl!  I 
niver  meant  to  go  wrong.  Had  to  bring 
that  poor  fool  You  Han  into  this  mess." 

The  deserter  pitched  forward  on  hands 
and  knees,  his  rifle  buried  somewhere  in 
his  circling  wake.  He  caught  hold  of  You 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  151 

Han's  queue  lest  they  lose  each  other,  and 
then  the  mule  pushed  impetuously  be- 
tween them,  ears  forward,  muzzle  out- 
stretched, trumpeting  joyfully. 

"He  b'lieve  can  find.  He  sabee  plenty," 
feebly  sputtered  You  Han. 

The  frantic  mule  dragged  the  boy  by 
the  lead-rope  a  few  paces,  the  corporal 
falling,  sliding  after,  and  then  stopped. 
The  linked  procession  could  go  no  farther. 
You  Han  collapsed  in  a  little  heap,  and 
the  corporal  toppled  face  down.  The  boy 
had  tied  the  lead-rope  around  his  own 
wrist,  and  the  impatient  mule  was  jerking 
it  so  that  the  forlorn  figure  in  the  sand 
seemed  to  make  appealing  gestures.  The 
corporal  was  without  motion,  and  with  a 
mighty  effort  You  Han  pulled  himself  a 
little  nearer,  and  the  mule  followed  pro- 
testingly.  The  swaying  curtain  of  sand 
closed  in  around  the  three  figures. 

You  Han  struggled  to  his  knees  and 
with  his  teeth  loosed  the  knotted  cinch, 
and  the  pack  fell  from  the  mule.  The  boy 
writhed  over  on  the  corporal  and  tried  to 
raise  the  dead  weight,  tried  to  talk  to  him 
in  a  wordless  and  appealing  whimper. 


152  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

The  deserter  strove  to  rise,  and  failed  un- 
til he  dully  comprehended  that  the  boy 
sought  to  make  him  mount  the  mule,  or  at 
least  to  hitch  him  in  tow  with  the  lead- 
rope.  Then  the  soldier  awoke,  and  fight- 
ing off  the  death  that  had  almost  mastered 
him,  lurched  to  one  knee  and  pushed  You 
Han  toward  the  mule  that  was  standing 
over  them.  His  voice  thick  and  rasping 
as  if  his  tongue  were  of  sandpaper,  the 
deserter  succeeded  in  saying: 

"Get  aboard  that  mule.  No  Chinese 
village  in  mine.  Better  man  than  me — 
you  an*  mule  both  better  men.  You 
won't? you,  take  that!" 

The  deserter  swung  his  fist  against  the 
jaw  of  the  struggling  boy,  and  the  blow 
went  home  with  the  last  flicker  of  the 
old-time  fighting  strength  of  Corporal 
Sweeney.  You  Han  dropped  limp,  as  if 
shot.  Then  the  fugitive  from  army  jus- 
tice braced  himself,  tried,  and  failed  to 
lift  the  light  body  in  his  arms.  Three 
times  he  tried  and  failed,  and  then,  as 
the  mule  swerved,  he  fell  against  it  and 
dropped  the  lad  across  its  back,  like  a 
bundle  of  quilts.  The  cinch,  trailing  in 


CORPORAL      SWEENEY  153 

the  sand,  tripped  the  man,  and  he  slipped 
it  over  You  Han  and  pulled  it  tight  before 
he  fell  back  in  the  tossing  sand.  The  mule 
stumbled  a  step  or  two  with  its  burden, 
found  that  it  was  free  and  in  a  moment 
tottered  beyond  the  vision  of  the  de- 
serter. 

Not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away  a 
camel-trail  lay  encamped  against  the 
storm,  and  to  the  Mongolian  drivers,  hud- 
dled in  furs  close  to  their  beasts,  came  a 
little  dun  mule  half  dragging  an  uncon- 
scious Chinese  youth,  whom  they  took  for 
dead  as  they  wonderingly  cut  him  loose 
from  his  lashing. 

Daylight  and  the  tail  of  the  sand-storm 
had  come  before  he  was  able  to  speak,  and 
the  camels  were  jostling  into  the  line  of 
march.  The  swarthy  drivers  scoffed  at 
the  story  told  by  the  raving  stranger,  un- 
til the  bell-camel  shied  at  something 
nearly  buried  in  the  sand.  You  Han 
fought  the  greedy  northerners  off  until 
he  had  disclosed  a  figure  in  army  blue  and 
a  clean-cut  Irish  face  whose  expression 
was  vastly  peaceful. 

The  last  silver  coin  was  gone  from  the 


154  CORPORAL      SWEENEY 

knotted  sash  of  You  Han  after  he  had 
persuaded  the  camel-men  to  carry  the 
body  to  the  village  where  Corporal 
Sweeney  had  expected  to  find  a  refuge 
from  fear. 


THE 
LAST  PILOT   SCHOONER 

YOUNG  James  Arbuthnot  Wilson 
slipped  into  the  Standard  build- 
ing with  an  uneasy  air  as  if  he  were 
vaguely  on  the  defensive.  Six  months  of 
work  in  the  "City  Department"  had  not 
rid  him  of  the  feeling  of  a  cat  in  a  strange 
garret.  The  veterans  of  the  staff  were 
rather  pleased  that  this  should  be  the  atti- 
tude common  among  young  reporters.  It 
showed  that  the  office  machine  was  geared 
to  high  tension  when  every  man,  short  of 
five  years'  service,  was  thankful  to  find 
his  "job"  had  not  slid  from  under  him 
between  two  days. 

Wilson  could  recall  no  specific  warn- 
ings that  his  head  was  in  peril.  His  ac- 
tivities had  been  too  inconspicuous  to 
merit  the  dignity  of  official  notice  of  any 
kind.  He  had  faithfully  followed  his 
foot-sore  round  of  minor  police  courts, 
hospitals,  one-alarm  fires,  and  dreary 
155 


1 56       THE      LAST      PILOT     SCHOONER 

public  meetings,  to  have  his  copy  jammed 
as  scanty  paragraphs  under  the  head  of 
"City  Jottings."  A  "story"  filling  a 
third  of  a  column  had  marked  his  one  red- 
letter  day  on  the  Standard. 

Each  afternoon,  at  one  o'clock,  he  hur- 
ried to  his  pigeon-hole  in  the  row  of  letter- 
boxes by  the  city  editor's  door,  his  heart 
thumping  to  this  sense  of  intangible  fear, 
and  with  it  pulsing  the  foolish  hope  of  a 
"big  assignment."  Some  day  they  must 
give  him  a  chance,  and  he  would  show 
them  whether  or  not  he  could  handle 
something  worth  while.  But  the  flame  of 
hope  was  low  on  this  dull  day  of  June  as 
Wilson  unlocked  his  box  and  tore  open 
the  yellow  envelope  on  which  his  name 
was  scrawled. 

He  whistled  in  blank  amazement  as  he 
followed  an  unfamiliar  hand  down  to  the 
managing  editor's  signature.  The  young- 
ster's face  flushed  and  his  fingers  twittered 
as  he  turned  sharply  to  see  if  the  loungers 
at  their  desks  had  noted  his  agitation. 
Then  he  stole  into  the  hall  and  re-read, 
with  his  lips  moving  as  if  he  were  spelling 
out  the  words : 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        157 

DEAB  MR.  WILSON:  You  have  been 
pegging  away  without  any  let-up  for 
three  months  and  your  work  has  been  ex- 
cellent. Here  is  an  easy  assignment  as  a 
reward  of  merit.  It  will  give  you  a  pleas- 
ant outing,  and  us  a  good  page  story  for 
the  Sunday  sheet.  The  enclosed  clipping 
from  to-day's  paper  will  give  you  the 
idea.  The  art  department  will  have  a 
snap-shot  camera  waiting  for  you.  Our 
Ship-News  man  made  arrangements  this 
morning  for  you  to  be  met  and  taken 
aboard.  The  one-forty  train  from  Broad 
Street  Station  will  take  you  through  to 
Lewes  and  the  Breakwater.  To  save 
time  I  enclose  some  expense  money. 
Try  to  be  back  on  Thursday.  This  will 
give  you  three  days  at  sea.  We  want 
plenty  of  rattling  description  and  human 
interest,  with  local  color  ad  lib.  Good 
luck. 

"Oh,  there  must  be  some  mistake," 
gasped  young  Wilson.  "A  page  Sunday 
story?  A  whole  page?  My  work  has 
been  excellent?  The  managing  editor 
has  been  following  it?  Why,  I  didn't 
suppose  he  knew  me  by  sight.  I  can't 
believe  it." 


158       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

Befogged  with  hopes  and  fears,  he 
turned  back  to  the  door  of  the  city  editor's 
room. 

"He's  just  gone  out  to  lunch  with  the 
managing  editor,"  volunteered  the  day 
assistant.  "No,  I  don't  know  where  they 
went.  Said  they'd  be  back  about  two- 
thirty." 

Wilson  looked  at  the  office  clock.  If  he 
would  catch  the  one- forty  train  for 
Lewes  there  was  no  leeway  for  hesita- 
tion. He  started  toward  the  elevator, 
then  halted  to  read  the  clipping,  which 
might  throw  some  light  upon  this  stag- 
gering manifesto: 

THE    LAST     PILOT     SCHOONER 

The  new  steam  pilot-boat  will  go  into 
commission  off  the  Delaware  Capes  early 
next  week.  This  change  from  sail  to 
steam  is  another  blow  at  the  romance  of 
blue  water.  Six  of  the  eight  trim  schoon- 
ers of  the  Delaware  fleet  have  already 
been  dismantled,  not  only  the  Albatross, 
Number  One  is  cruising  on  the  station. 
She  will  be  laid  up  as  soon  as  the  steamer 
is  ready  to  put  the  pilots  aboard  incoming 


THE     LAST     PILOT     SCHOONER       159 

vessels.  Every  ocean  voyager  will  regret 
the  passing  of  the  pilot  schooner.  These 
stormy  petrels  among  sailing  craft  have 
been  the  first  messengers  from  the  looked- 
for  land,  as  specks  in  the  tumbling 
waste  of  sea,  or  lying  hove  to  in  all 
weathers. 


Wilson  threw  his  doubts  overboard. 
All  he  had  ever  read  of  bellying  canvas, 
whipping  spars,  and  lee  rails  awash 
leaped  into  the  foreground  of  his  boyish 
imagination.  Here  was  his  chance  for 
such  a  "descriptive  story"  as  he  had 
dreamed  of  through  weeks  and  months, 
this  last  cruise  of  the  last  pilot  schooner. 
He  dashed  into  the  art  room,  snatched  up 
the  waiting  camera,  and  bolted  for  the 
station.  After  he  dropped  panting  into 
a  seat  of  the  accommodation  train  for 
Lewes,  he  found  himself  already  over- 
hauling his  stock  of  sea-lore  and  sailor 
adjectives. 

There  was  time  for  reflection  in  this 
four-hour  journey  to  the  sea,  and  ere 
long,  sober  second  thought  began  to  over- 
take his  first  wild  elation.  The  young 


l6o       THE     LAST      PILOT     SCHOONER 

reporter's  doubts  came  trooping  back. 
He  remembered  now  that  he  had  never 
written  a  line  of  "ship-news"  for  the 
Standard.  He  blushed  to  confess  to  him- 
self that  his  life  on  salt  water  had  been 
bounded  by  the  decks  of  river  excursion 
steamers.  And  what  had  he  ever  done 
worth  the  notice  of  the  managing  editor? 
Of  course,  he  had  worked  hard,  and  the 
world,  at  least  in  fiction,  occasionally  re- 
warded honest  merit  in  lowly  places  with 
unexpected  largess.  But  any  "star  man" 
of  the  staff  would  have  given  a  week's 
salary  for  such  a  note  as  this  from  the 
chief  executive  of  the  Standard.  And  he, 
James  Arbuthnot  Wilson,  was  indubita- 
bly the  rawest  and  humblest  recruit  of 
that  keen  and  rough-riding  squadron  of 
talent. 

An  inevitable  reaction  swung  his  mood 
into  the  forebodings.  The  train  was  loaf- 
ing along  the  upper  reaches  of  Delaware 
Bay  when  he  re-read  the  intoxicating 
note,  and  caught  himself  repeating  "Dear 
Mr.  Wilson,"  with  a  sudden  glimmer  of 
association.  In  another  miserable  moment 
the  youth's  beautiful  dream  was  wrenched 


THE      LAST     PILOT     SCHOONER       l6l 

from  him.  What  a  fool  he  had  been! 
"Wilson,"  "Wilson,"  he  muttered  and 
burst  out: 

"Of  course,  there  is  another  Wilson,  the 
tip-top  man  of  the  staff.  It's  the  Wilson 
who's  been  filling  in  as  chief  of  the  Wash- 
ington Bureau  for  six  months.  I  heard 
somebody  say  the  other  night  that  'Doc* 
Wilson  was  coming  back,  and  was  to  go 
on  general  work  again.  He  must  have 
turned  up  over  Sunday.  And  that  new 
boy  put  his  note  in  my  box.  Well,  I  am 
IT." 

Young  James  Arbuthnot  Wilson 
squeezed  back  a  smarting  tear.  He  did 
not  try  to  fence  with  this  surmise.  There 
was  no  room  for  doubt  that  the  kind 
words  and  the  pleasant  outing  had  been 
aimed  at  his  high-salaried  elder.  James 
Arbuthnot  had  never  clapped  eyes  on  the 
gifted  "Doc"  Wilson,  whose  Washington 
dispatches  had  carried  no  signature  and 
whose  distant  personality  had  made  no 
impression  upon  this  wretched  under- 
study of  his. 

How  could  the  pilgrim  muster  courage 
to  go  back  and  face  the  issue?  He  would 


162       THE     LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

be  the  office  butt —  Well,  he  could  re- 
sign, but  most  likely,  he  reflected,  dis- 
missal would  be  the  instant  penalty  of 
this  incredibly  presumptuous  blunder. 
The  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  drop 
off  at  the  next  way  station  and  return  to 
the  scene  of  his  downfall.  But  to  his 
stammering  plea  the  brakeman  returned: 

"Next  train  up  won't  get  along  here 
till  late  to-night.  You  better  go  through 
to  Lewes  instead  of  waiting  seven  hours 
at  one  of  these  next-to-nothing  flag  sta- 
tions." 

The  reporter  slumped  into  his  seat  and 
looked  through  the  open  window.  The 
tang  of  brine  was  in  the  breeze  that 
gushed  up  the  bay  with  the  rising  tide. 
Across  the  green  fields  he  began  to 
glimpse  flashing  blue  water  and  bits  of 
the  traffic  of  far-off  seas.  A  deep-laden 
tramp  freighter  was  creeping  toward  her 
port,  a  battered  bark  surged  solemnly  in 
tow  of  an  ocean-going  tug,  and  a  four- 
masted  schooner  was  reaching  up  the  bay 
with  every  sail  pulling.  Across  the  aisle 
of  the  car  Wilson  noticed,  with  a  melan- 
choly pleasure,  four  deep-tanned  men  of 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        163 

rugged  aspect,  who  played  cards  with 
much  talk  of  ships  and  tides  and  skippers. 
They  belonged  in  this  picture. 

Wilson  thought  of  the  stewing  city  far 
behind  him,  and  the  spirit  of  some  sea- 
faring ancestor  was  whispering  in  his  ear. 
Yes,  by  Jove !  he  would  see  the  tragic  ven- 
ture through  after  all.  It  were  better  to 
return  with  a  "story,"  and  fall  with  colors 
flying  than  to  slink  back  to  empty  ridi- 
cule. Let  them  try  to  overtake  him  if 
they  dared.  This  was  "Mr.  Wilson's'* 
mission,  and  no  one  could  snatch  it  from 
him. 

When  the  train  labored  into  Lewes,  the 
fugitive  looked  across  the  flats  to  the  cud- 
dling arm  of  the  Breakwater  and  the  shin- 
ing sea  beyond.  With  the  instinct  of  the 
hunted,  he  made  ready  to  flee  in  this  direc- 
tion, away  from  the  station  and  the  town. 
As  he  dropped  from  the  car,  a  man  in  the 
uniform  of  a  station  agent  climbed  aboard 
and  shouted: 

"Telegram  for  Mr.  Wilson.  Is  Mr. 
Wilson  aboard?  Urgent  telegram  for 
Mr.  J.  A.  Wilson." 

Mr.  Wilson's  pulse  fluttered  as  he  dove 


164       THE      LAST      PILOT     SCHOONER 

behind  the  warehouse  across  the  tracks, 
while  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  station  agent 
rang  horribly  in  his  ears.  The  long  arm 
of  the  Standard  had  almost  clutched  him 
by  the  collar.  As  he  hurried  down  the 
nearest  street  to  the  water,  he  saw  heading 
toward  him  a  lusty  youth  of  a  sailorish 
cut,  who  eyed  the  camera  case  as  if  hasty 
suspicions  were  confirmed. 

"Is  your  name  Wilson?"  demanded  the 
stranger.  "If  it  be,  come  along  with  me. 
I'm  from  the  Albatross'  boat-crew." 

Wondering  how  much  guilt  was  writ- 
ten in  his  face,  Wilson  fervently  shook 
the  hand  of  the  briny  youth.  They  fared 
toward  the  pier,  while  the  convoy  ex- 
plained: 

"You're  in  luck.  We're  ready  to  go 
to  sea  as  soon  as  you  get  aboard.  Hit  it 
just  right,  didn't  you?  The  pilots  '11  be 
glad  to  see  you  again.  They  was  tickled 
to  death  over  the  piece  you  wrote  for  the 
paper  when  the  Eben  Tunnell,  Number 
Three,  come  in  after  fightin'  through  the 
'88  blizzard,  and  specially  what  you  wrote 
about  ol'  'Pop'  Markle  stickin'  by  the 
Morgan  Castle  when  she  ketched  fire  off 


THE      LAST      PILOT     SCHOONER        165 

the  Capes  two  year  ago.  And,  say,  they 
still  talk  about  that  jack-pot  you  sky- 
hooted  clean  through  the  cabin  skylight, 
and  how  th'  Pilots'  Association  went  in 
mournin'  for  thirty  days  after  that  poker 
game.  Two  o'  them  boys  is  aboard  this 
cruise,  with  the  chips  all  stacked  an' 
waitin',  and  their  knives  whetted.  I'm 
sorry  I  missed  the  fun  before." 

James  Arbuthnot  Wilson  gulped  hard 
at  these  lamentable  tidings.  He  was 
vaulting  from  the  frying-pan  into  the 
fire.  These  rude  and  reckless  men  would 
probably  heave  him  overboard.  And, 
alas,  the  penny-ante  of  his  mild  college 
dissipations  had  left  him  as  deficient  in 
poker  prowess  as  in  sea-lore.  The  fore- 
mast hand  from  the  Albatross  was  some- 
what crestfallen  over  his  capture.  If 
this  slip  of  a  boy  was  the  seasoned  and 
capable  "Doc"  Wilson,  able  to  hold  his 
own  in  all  weather  and  any  company,  then 
appearances  were  basely  deceiving,  and 
the  escort  felt  a  sense  of  personal  griev- 
ance. 

The  boat  was  waiting  at  the  pier  and 
the  four  slouching  seamen  rowed  out  to 


166       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

the  black  schooner,  which  lazily  rolled  her 
gleaming  sides  off  the  end  of  the  Break- 
water. Wilson  climbed  awkwardly  aboard 
and  was  saved  from  sprawling  his  length 
on  deck  by  a  strong  hand,  which  yanked 
him  in  a  welcoming  grip.  Then  a  stocky 
man  with  a  grizzled  mustache  stepped 
back  and  fairly  shouted: 

"Why,  hell!  You  ain't  'Doc'  Wilson. 
What  kind  of  a  game  is  this?  I  popped 
up  from  below  in  time  to  see  your  hat 
coming  over  the  side.  Kick  me,  please. 
I'm  dreamin',  as  sure  as  my  name's  Mc- 
Call." 

He  fished  a  rumpled  telegram  from 
his  blue  clothes,  and  flourished  it  before 
the  nose  of  his  guest,  as  he  cried  for- 
midably : 

"Read  that!" 

"  'Doc'  Wilson,  of  the  Standard,,  will  be 
down  on  afternoon  train.  Take  him 
aboard  and  treat  him  right." 

Young  Wilson  looked  at  the  half  mile 
of  water  between  the  schooner  and  the 
beach,  and  thought  of  trying  to  swim  for 


THE     LAST     PILOT     SCHOONER       167 

it.  But  the  bully-ragging  tone  of  the 
pilot  struck  a  spark  of  his  latent  pluck 
and  he  answered  with  some  spirit: 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  you're  so  disap- 
pointed. My  name  is  Wilson,  James  Ar- 
buthnot  Wilson,  of  the  Standard.  The 
order  to  join  your  boat  was  delivered  to 
me.  If  there's  been  a  mistake,  and  I'm 
so  unwelcome,  I'll  have  to  put  you  to  the 
trouble  of  setting  me  ashore  again." 

The  innate  hospitality  of  his  kind 
smothered  the  pilot's  first  emotions,  and 
he  regretted  his  rudeness  as  he  smote  the 
lad  on  the  back  and  shouted: 

"All  right,  Jimmy  Arbutus.  I  guess 
there's  no  great  damage  done.  It's  now 
or  never  for  your  newspaper,  and  if  we 
can't  carry  the  skipper,  we'll  get  along 
with  the  mate  of  your  outfit.  And  we'll 
give  you  a  cruise  to  make  your  lead-pencil 
smoke.  Tumble  below  and  shake  them 
natty  clothes.  The  boat-keeper  will  fit 
you  out  with  a  pair  of  boots  and  a 
jumper." 

Sore  and  abashed,  with  the  hateful 
emotions  of  an  intruder,  Wilson  crept 
below  and  faced  another  ordeal.  In  the 


l68       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

pilots'  roomy  cabin,  which  ran  half  the 
length  of  the  schooner,  four  men  were 
changing  their  clothes  and  tidying  up 
their  bunks.  One  of  them  emerged  from 
the  confusion  to  yell  at  the  invader's 
patent  leather  ties: 

"Hello,  Doc,  you  old  pirate.  Is  that 
you?  Glad  to  see  you  aboard.  Well,  I 
will  be  damned!" 

His  jaw  dropped  and  he  looked  sheep- 
ish as  a  hurricane  voice  came  through  the 
open  skylight : 

"Don't  hurt  the  kid's  feelin's.  I've 
done  plenty  of  that.  This  is  Jimmy  Ar- 
butus Wilson,  apprentice  to  'Doc,'  and 
he's  doin'  the  best  he  can.  'Doc'  got 
stranded  somewheres,  and  the  lad  is 
takin'  his  run.  I  don't  fathom  it  a  little 
bit,  but  what's  the  odds?" 

The  passenger  was  introduced  to  all 
hands,  who  showed  a  depressing  lack  of 
enthusiasm,  and  the  pilots  returned  to 
their  tasks.  Wilson  retired,  blushing  and 
confused,  to  the  edge  of  his  bunk.  Pres- 
ently the  oldest  man  of  the  party  sat  down 
beside  the  intruder,  and  shook  his  hand 
for  the  second  time.  Wilson  raised  his 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        169 

downcast  face  to  the  white-haired  veteran, 
who  said  softly: 

"Now,  sonny,  don't  let  the  boys  rile  you 
none.  They're  kinder  sore  on  some  of  the 
greenhorns  that  writes  pieces  all  wrong 
for  the  Philadelphy  papers,  and  this  'Doc' 
Wilson  knows  sailor  ways  and  sailor 
lingo,  and  they  sorter  took  a  shine  to  him 
and  his  style.  But  fur's  I  know,  you  can 
write  rings  around  him.  And  Old  Pop 
Markle,  as  they  calls  me,  will  see  you 
through,  blow  high,  blow  low.  It's  my 
last  cruise,  this  is.  I'm  past  seventy  year, 
sonny,  and  my  oldest  boy  is  a  pilot;  he 
brought  a  tanker  in  yestiddy,  and  my 
grandson  is  servin'  his  apprentice  years, 
and  he'll  be  gettin'  his  papers  pretty  soon. 
It's  time  for  me  to  quit.  I  was  goin'  to 
lay  up  ashore  in  the  spring,  but  I  kinder 
wanted  to  wind  up  with  the  old  Albatross. 
Better  come  on  deck,  sonny;  we're  short- 
enin'  cable." 

Wilson  smiled  his  gratitude  at  the  gen- 
tle and  garrulous  old  pilot,  whose  smooth- 
shaven  face  was  webbed  with  fine-drawn 
wrinkles,  as  if  each  salty  cruise  had  left 
its  own  recording  line.  The  blue  eyes  were 


170       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

faded  from  staring  into  fifty  years  of  sun 
and  wind,  but  they  held  a  beaming  inter- 
est in  the  welfare  of  this  tyro  struggling 
in  the  meshes  of  hostile  circumstance. 

The  reporter  followed  his  guardian  on 
deck,  and  his  spirits  swiftly  rose.  The 
Albatross  was  paying  off  under  a  flat- 
tened forestaysail,  while  her  crew  tailed 
onto  the  main-sheet  with  a  roaring  chorus, 
for  they,  too,  felt  a  thrill  of  sentiment  in 
this  last  cruise.  The  wind  held  fresh  from 
the  south'ard,  and  under  the  smooth  lee 
of  Cape  Henlopen  the  Albatross  shot 
seaward,  as  if  they  were  skating  over  a 
polished  floor.  Now  the  pilots  came  tum- 
bling up,  and  shouted  as  they  turned  to 
and  helped  set  the  maintopsail  and  stay- 
sail. The  schooner  staggered  down  to  it, 
until  the  white  water  hissed  over  her  low 
bulwark,  and  sobbed  through  the  scup- 
pers. "Old  Pop"  Markle  slapped  his 
knee  and  cried  huskily : 

"Give  her  all  she'll  stand,  boys.  It's 
like  old  times  when  we  raced  that  dod- 
gasted  Number  Four  and  hung  to  the 
weather  riggin'  by  our  teeth,  and  bent  a 
new  suit  of  sails  every  other  cruise." 


THE      LAST      PILOT     SCHOONER        171 

Holding  the  wind  abeam,  the  Albatross 
drove  straight  out  to  sea,  and  then,  once 
clear  of  Cape  May,  slid  off  to  the  north- 
'ard.  Now,  the  quartering  sea  picked  her 
up  and  she  swooped  down  the  slopes  and 
tried  nimbly  to  climb  the  frothing  hills, 
as  the  jolly  wind  smote  her  press  of  can- 
vas and  jammed  her  smoking  through' 
them.  A  new  exhilaration  surged  in 
young  Wilson's  veins.  He  was  drinking 
it  all  in,  the  buoyant  flight  of  the  low,  slim 
schooner,  the  intimate  nearness  of  the  sea, 
the  sweetness  of  the  wind,  and  the  solem- 
nity of  the  marching  twilight.  He  would 
not  have  been  elsewhere  for  worlds.  Then 
the  fat  and  sweating  face  of  the  cook  ap- 
peared from  below,  and  bellowed  an  in- 
articulate summons. 

The  pilots  obeyed  with  ardor,  and  Wil- 
son followed  timidly  in  their  wake.  Sup- 
per smoked  on  the  cabin  table,  and  the 
guest  was  glad  to  survey  the  stout  fare  of 
hash,  cold  meat,  potatoes,  green  peas, 
flaky  hot  biscuits,  and  a  mammoth  pud- 
ding. "Old  Pop"  Markle  took  the  young- 
ster under  his  protecting  wing,  and  found 
a  seat  on  the  locker  beside  his  own.  The 


172       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

reporter  fell  to,  while  the  pilots  chatted 
with  bursts  of  gusty  laughter.  He  made 
one  desperate  rally  to  join  the  talk,  and 
in  a  quiet  moment  asked  a  neighbor : 

"How  do  you  know  when  a  ship  wants 
a  pilot?" 

"We  generally  have  a  trained  green 
parrot  that  flies  over  and  asks  'em,"  was 
the  cruel  response.  "But  we  ran  short  of 
stores  last  cruise,  and  had  to  eat  him.  This 
voyage  we  intend  to  mail  'em  postal 
cards." 

There  was  an  appreciative  roar,  and 
Wilson  winced  as  "Old  Pop"  Markle 
whispered : 

"Don't  mind  that  Peter  Haines.  He's 
got  a  heart  as  soft  as  mush.  It's  only 
their  skylarkin',  sonny.  Hit  'em  back. 
That's  what  they  like." 

But  the  victim  had  lost  all  self-confi- 
dence, and  now  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
dizzy  and  forlorn.  The  smell  of  food,  the 
heat,  and  the  jerky  plunging  of  the  cabin 
were  overwhelming.  He  staggered  to 
his  bunk  and  crept  in.  This  was  the  last 
blow,  that  on  top  of  his  false  pretences 
he  should  be  laid  low  before  the  eyes  of 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        173 

this  hostile  crowd.  He  knew  not  what 
happened,  until  hours  after  he  awoke 
from  a  semi-stupor  to  find  "Old  Pop" 
Markle  sponging  his  face  with  cold  water 
and  calling  in  his  ear: 

"There's  a  steamer  coming  up  from  the 
east'ard.  Brace  up  and  get  on  deck.  It's 
a  pretty  sight." 

The  boy  clambered  through  the  com- 
panionway  as  the  boat-keeper  touched  a 
match  to  an  oil-soaked  bunch  of  waste  in 
a  wire  cage  at  the  end  of  his  torch.  The 
schooner  and  the  near-by  sea  were  bathed 
in  a  yellow  glare.  Out  in  the  darkness  a 
blue  Coston  light  glowed  a  response. 
Some  one  shouted:  "On  deck  for  the 
skiff,"  and  five  minutes  later  the  boat- 
crew  was  pulling  off  in  the  night  to  the 
waiting  steamer,  with  a  pilot  in  the  stern- 
sheets. 

"There  goes  your  friend,  Peter 
Haines,"  chuckled  "Pop"  Markle.  "I 
knowed  you'd  take  it  hard  if  I  didn't  give 
you  a  chance  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  He 
won't  pester  you  no  more  this  cruise." 

The  wind  blew  some  of  the  cobwebs 
from  poor  Wilson's  muddled  head,  and  he 


174      THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

felt  refreshed.  Soon  the  pelting  spray 
drove  him  below  deck  and  he  curled  up  on 
a  locker,  watching  the  poker  game  from 
which  youth  and  inexperience  barred  him. 
And  what  was  more  cutting,  he  was  not 
even  asked  to  play. 

"It  would  be  like  taking  pennies  from 
a  blind  child,"  callously  commented  the 
strapping  McCall  who  had  welcomed  him 
aboard.  But  the  white-haired  patriarch 
of  them  all  did  not  join  the  game,  and  he 
said  cheerily  to  Wilson : 

"You're  too  young  and  I'm  too  old  to 
be  wastin'  our  wages  in  them  pursuits, 
ain't  we,  sonny?  There's  an  old  lady  and 
a  cottage  at  Lewes  that  takes  care  of  my 
rake-off.  And  instid  of  raisin'  the  limit, 
I  raise  vegetubbles  for  my  fun.'* 

Wilson  opened  his  bruised  heart  and 
told  the  old  pilot  the  story  of  his  venture, 
and  felt  relieved  that  his  masquerade  had 
been  thrown  away.  "Pop"  Markle's  blue 
eyes  twinkled: 

"See  here,  Jimmy  Arbutus,  I'll  see  that 
you  write  a  fust-rate  piece  for  your  paper. 
Ask  me  anything  your  amazin'  ignorance 
tells  you  to.  The  boys  wanted  me  to  take 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        175 

in  the  fust  vessel  we  met,  and  was  willin' 
to  shove  their  turns  aside,  but  I  told  'em  it 
was  my  last  cruise,  and  I  was  goin'  to  see 
her  through  to  the  finish.  So  we've  lots  of 
time  to  talk  pilotin'  together.  What  was 
the  most  remarkable  experience  ever  I 
had?  Pshaw,  that  sounds  like  a  full- 
rigged  reporter,  sonny,  really  it  does. 

"Well,  I  never  got  drownded  boardin' 
a  vessel,  but  I  once  fell  afoul  of  a  skipper 
that  was  a  worse  blunderin'  id  jit  than 
you've  been.  It  may  sound  kinder  com- 
fortin'  to  you.  About  fifty  miles  off  the 
Capes,  I  dumb  aboard  an  Italian  bark. 
Her  captain  said  he  was  bound  for  Wil- 
mington, and  would  I  take  him  in?  He 
got  a  tow-boat  at  the  Breakwater,  and  we 
were  goin'  up  the  river  all  right,  when 
plumb  by  accident  this  benighted  Dago 
imparted  to  me  that  he  was  bound  for 
Wilmington,  North  Caroliny.  'Great 
Scott!  You  dodgasted  lunatic,'  says  I, 
'you're  pretty  nigh  up  to  Wilmington, 
Delaware.'  He  went  crazier  than  ever, 
and  put  about  for  sea  after  I  showed  him 
on  the  chart  where  he  was  at.  He  had 
been  runnin'  by  dead-reckonin',  and  didn't 


176       THE      LAST      PILOT     SCHOONER 

know  where  he  was.  So,  when  he  picked 
up  a  pilot  and  found  he  was  headed  all 
right  for  Wilmington,  he  figured  his 
troubles  were  over.  So  there's  worse  than 
you  afloat,  Jimmy  Arbutus." 

At  his  suggestion,  Wilson  dug  up  his 
notebook  and  scribbled  therein  many  other 
yarns,  for  the  old  pilot  warmed  to  his  task, 
and  insisted  that  each  of  the  poker  play- 
ers should  contribute  a  story  to  the  fund. 
When  he  was  routed  out  for  breakfast, 
the  party  had  lost  another  pilot  who  had 
found  his  ship  at  daybreak.  The  wind 
had  drawn  into  the  northeast,  and  the 
Albatross  was  snuggled  down  under  dou- 
ble reefs.  The  barometer  was  falling, 
and  the  boat-keeper  shook  his  head  when 
the  pilots  insisted  upon  edging  further  off 
shore. 

"Drive  her  till  she  cracks,"  shouted  Mc- 
Call.  "This  is  the  trip  when  we  keep 
going  till  we  get  our  ships.  The  Alba- 
tross goes  home  empty,  you  bet  your 
boots." 

With  much  daring  and  difficulty  one 
man  was  put  aboard  a  liner  late  in  the 
afternoon.  Three  pilots  were  left,  and 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        177 

they  swept  Wilson  into  their  genial  com- 
radeship, as  the  little  party  clawed  its  way 
to  supper,  and  hung  onto  the  table  by  its 
eyelids.  In  his  mind,  Wilson  began  to  see 
the  page  story,  "full  of  human  interest 
and  color."  To-morrow  he  would  work 
at  his  "introduction,"  and  the  thought  of 
really  making  a  start  at  filling  those 
stately  columns  was  perturbing.  He  felt 
something  like  stage- fright  at  the  notion 
of  it. 

Before  midnight,  James  Arbuthnot 
Wilson  had  forgotten  his  "story,"  and 
was  thinking  only  of  the  awful  turmoil 
above  him.  The  wind  had  leaped  to  the 
might  of  a  sudden  summer  gale.  The 
schooner  was  hove  to  and  battened  tight, 
and  like  a  tightly  corked  bottle  she  danced 
over  the  shouting  seas.  Made  sick  and 
giddy,  Wilson  sought  "Old  Pop"  Markle, 
who  was  peacefully  snoring  in  the  next 
bunk,  and  shook  him  awake. 

"Pshaw,  sonny,"  the  old  man  muttered, 
"she's  safer  than  a  big  ship.  She'll  rare 
and  tear  and  sputter  till  it  blows  over. 
If  it'll  ease  your  mind  any,  I'll  take  a  peek 
on  deck." 


178       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

The  pilot  slipped  into  his  oil-skins  and 
vanished. 

"It's  pretty  thick,"  he  said  when  he 
came  below,  "but  there  ain't  no  great  sea 
on,  not  for  us.  Rainin'  hard  and  blowin' 
some.  McCall  is  standin'  watch  with  the 
boat-keeper.  You're  safer  than  if  you 
was  in  the  Standard  office.  You  can't  lose 
your  job  out  here,  Jimmy." 

Somewhat  comforted,  Wilson  tried  to 
sleep.  It  was  a  terrifying  experience  for 
the  greenhorn,  with  more  "local  color" 
than  he  had  bargained  for.  Some  time 
later  in  the  night  he  was  half  dreaming 
that  "Doc"  Wilson  was  holding  his  head 
under  water  and  drowning  him  with  the 
most  enjoyable  deliberation. 

With  a  crashing  sound  like  the  explo- 
sion of  a  great  gun  in  his  ears,  he  was 
flung  headlong  clear  across  the  cabin,  and 
on  top  of  him  came  "Old  Pop"  Markle, 
sputtering  harmless  curses.  The  cabin 
floor  sloped  like  the  side  of  a  house  and 
stayed  there  as  Wilson  scrambled  to  his 
hands  and  knees.  Then  came  a  more 
sickening  lurch,  and  before  the  hanging 
cabin  lamp  was  smashed  against  the  deck- 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER       179 

beams,  the  lad  saw  that  the  old  man  was 
dazed.  He  gave  him  a  hand,  and  together 
they  climbed  the  slope,  and  grasped  the 
legs  of  the  stationary  table.  They  heard 
the  other  pilots  stumble  up  the  companion 
ladder,  and  hammer  back  the  hatch,  with 
yells  of  terror  lest  they  be  trapped. 

Forward  of  the  cabin  bulkhead,  they 
heard  the  roar  of  inrushing  water,  and 
smothered  outcries  among  the  watch  be- 
low. While  the  old  man  and  the  boy  tried 
to  grope  their  way  aft  to  the  ladder,  the 
sea  crashed  through  the  bulkhead  door 
from  the  galley  beyond,  and  instantly 
they  were  picked  up  and  hurled  aft,  chok- 
ing and  fighting  for  life.  Wilson  chanced 
to  grasp  a  step  of  the  ladder,  and  with  his 
free  arm  puUed  "Old  Pop"  Markle  to 
this  refuge.  The  reporter  did  not  want 
to  die,  and  he  knew  that  death  dragged 
him  by  the  heels.  And  it  was  with  no 
heroic  prompting  that  he  pushed  the  old 
man  up  ahead  of  him.  It  was  done  on 
the  instant,  as  one  friend  would  help  an- 
other in  a  pinch,  without  wrought-out 
purpose. 

The  water  was  sucking  at  his  waist  as 


l8o       THE      LAST     PILOT      SCHOONER 

he  fought  his  way  up,  and  partly  out,  and 
managed  to  double  himself  over  the  hatch 
coaming,  with  the  old  man's  legs  across  his 
shoulders.  Thus  they  were  half  jammed 
in  the  cramped  exit.  Just  then  the  flare 
torch  was  lighted  by  a  seaman.  In  the 
yellow  glare  "Old  Pop"  Markle  saw  the 
two  pilots  and  two,  only  two,  of  the  crew 
wrestling  with  the  one  skiff  left  at  the 
davits.  One  of  them  stopped  to  beckon 
wildly  to  the  old  man  and  started  to  go  to 
his  aid. 

In  this  moment  the  schooner  lurched 
under  with  a  weary,  lifeless  roll,  and  a 
black  sea  stamped  across  her  sodden  hull. 
It  licked  up  the  boat  and  the  handful  of 
toiling  men,  it  leaped  forward  and  pulled 
down  the  black  figure  with  the  torch.  The 
two  men  still  jammed  in  the  hatchway 
were  cruelly  battered,  but  they  could  not 
be  wrenched  away.  And  when  the  tower- 
ing comber  had  passed,  there  was  darkness 
and  silence,  and  no  more  shouting  voices 
on  the  schooner's  deck. 

The  old  pilot  wriggled  free  and  got  his 
hands  on  a  life-buoy  that  hung  within  his 
reach  at  the  after  end  of  the  cabin  hatch. 


THE      LAST     PILOT     SCHOONER       l8l 

Wilson  dragged  himself  after  him,  and 
pitched  against  a  splintered  mass  of 
planking  upended  against  the  wheel. 
They  listened  and  heard  a  steamer's  im- 
ploring whistle,  and  one  faint  cry  off  to 
leeward.  "Pop"  Markle  groaned  as  he 
fumbled  in  the  darkness  and  laboriously 
passed  a  tangle  of  line  around  the  wreck 
of  the  skylight  cover  to  which  Wilson 
was  clinging. 

"Hang  on,  sonny,"  he  gasped.  "I've 
made  the  buoy  fast  to  the  loose  timber. 
We'll  go  off  together  with  the  next  sea, 
sure.  My  God!  here  it  comes." 

The  dying  schooner  seemed  to  sink 
from  beneath  them,  and  clinging  to  their 
frail  bit  of  a  raft,  they  were  spun  off  to 
leeward  in  the  arms  of  the  sea  that 
swamped  the  rock-ballasted  Albatross. 
Turned  over  and  over,  the  two  men 
fought  for  breath  until  the  skylight  cover 
righted,  and  they  came  to  the  surface. 
They  slid  swiftly  into  a  murky  hollow, 
and  were  borne  to  the  tattered  crest  whose 
froth  was  strangling. 

But  the  wind  was  falling  fast.  Such 
seas  as  those  which  had  broken  over 


182       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

the  helpless  Albatross  were  running  in 
swollen  billows  when  they  met  no  barrier 
to  check  them.  Therefore  the  castaways 
could  cling  and  breathe,  and  even  made 
shift  to  pass  the  loose  ends  of  the  line 
around  their  waists  while  they  waited  for 
the  end.  Now  their  spray-blinded  eyes 
dimly  saw  the  lights  of  the  steamer  that 
had  bitten  halfway  through  the  pilot- 
schooner.  She  was  blundering  far  to 
windward,  and  her  signal  rockets  cut  red 
gashes  in  the  night.  They  could  watch 
her  swing  in  a  useless  circle  as  she  sought 
to  find  the  craft  she  had  struck.  Drifting 
away  to  leeward,  the  old  pilot  and  the 
young  reporter  tried  to  shout,  but  their 
little  rasping  cries  were  pitifully  futile. 
They  coughed  the  racking  brine  from 
their  throats,  and  saw  the  last  rocket  soar, 
saw  the  steamer's  lights  fade  in  the  rain, 
become  twinkling  points  and  vanish. 

There  were  no  words  between  them  un- 
til the  day  began  to  break.  Now  and  then 
one  sought  the  other's  hand  and  found  a 
feebly  responsive  grip.  Thus  they  knew 
that  death  had  not  come  to  the  little  raft. 
With  the  gray  light,  the  wind  veered 


The  last  of  the  'Albatross." 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        183 

round  to  the  south'ard,  and  except  for  the 
swinging  swell,  the  sea  was  smoothed  to 
summer  gentleness.  The  eternal  miracle 
of  dawn  had  never  come  to  more  grateful 
hearts  than  these  two.  Youth  had  sur- 
vived the  battering  ordeal  with  mind  still 
alert,  but  old  age  was  near  passing  with 
hurts  and  exhaustion.  Now  that  he  could 
see  no  help,  the  boy  so  managed  it  that  the 
pilot  could  lie  half  across  the  lifebuoy, 
which  floated  high  with  the  supporting 
planking  beneath  it. 

"Them  as  wasn't  drownded  and 
smashed  in  their  bunks,  couldn't  swim,  or 
none  to  speak  of,"  sighed  the  old  man. 
"I  knew  'em  all  from  boys.  Two  left. 
.  .  .  And  we're  the  most  wuthless  of 
the  lot,  sonny.  But  you  may  learn  how 
to  make  an  honest  livin'  some  day.  .  .  . 
Don't  bother  with  me.  .  .  .  I'm  due 
to  go.  ...  The  old  lady  has  the  cot- 
tage, and  there's  the  pension  from  the 
Pilot's  Fund.  .  .  .  And  two  more 
pilots  in  the  family.  .  .  .  Ain't  you 
sorry  you  didn't  let  'Doc'  Wilson  come?" 

The  boy  sputtered : 

"No,  we  aren't  dead  yet,  and  if  we're 


184       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

picked  up  it's  the  story  of  a  lifetime.  I 
don't  believe  the  Lord  saved  us  from  the 
wreck  to  die  on  a  summer  morning  like 
this.  And,  my,  but  you  were  good  to  me, 
Mr.  Markle." 

They  floated  in  silence  while  the  June 
sun  rose  higher,  and  heat  and  thirst  piled 
up  their  wretchedness.  The  seasoned  fiber 
of  the  old  man  had  been  toughened  for 
such  a  stress  as  this.  He  hung  on  grimly 
because  he  had  always  hung  on  grimly  to 
whatever  life  set  him  to  endure.  Although 
they  were  out  on  the  edge  of  traffic  bound 
in  and  out  of  the  Delaware  Capes,  he  still 
hoped,  but  mostly  for  the  boy. 

Six  hours  after  the  Albatross  had  gone 
to  the  bottom,  a  boat  from  a  crippled  brig, 
laden  with  salt  from  Turk's  Island, 
picked  up  a  bit  of  wreckage  to  which  were 
lashed  a  white-haired  man  and  a  beardless 
lad.  Both  were  too  weak  to  talk,  and  the 
British  skipper  had  them  put  into  bunks, 
and  poured  raw  Jamaica  rum  down  their 
throats.  Wilson  was  the  first  to  revive, 
but  he  could  not  rise,  and  had  to  content 
himself  with  tidings  that  the  pilot  was 
alive  and  conscious.  Night  had  come  be- 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        185 

fore  the  reporter  could  totter  as  far  as  the 
mate's  cabin  and  see  his  comrade. 

The  pilot's  leathery  face  was  strangely 
bleached,  and  he  could  no  more  than  whis- 
per with  a  faltering  huskiness : 

"God  bless  their  poor  souls.  They  was 
all  neighbors  of  mine.  Hello,  Jimmy  Ar- 
butus, have  you  begun  to  write  that  piece 
for  the  paper?  There's  something  wrong 
with  my  insides.  I  think  I  busted  some  of 
'em  when  we  was  jammed  in  that  hatch. 
Well,  we're  going  home,  my  son.  Are 
you  all  taut  again?" 

Wilson  tried  to  hide  his  anxiety  and  set 
himself  to  nursing  the  old  man  as  best  he 
could.  His  clumsy  attentions  were  re- 
ceived with  a  sweet  resignation,  but  the 
old  man  showed  signs  of  impatience.  At 
length,  unable  to  restrain  his  desire,  he 
asked : 

"Why  don't  you  begin  to  write  your 
piece  instead  of  wastin'  time  on  my  old 
hulk?  I  want  to  see  it's  done  all  ship- 
shape. We  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  'Doc' 
Wilson  nor  a  lot  of  fresh  young  pilots 
laughin'  at  our  blunders.  I'll  overhaul  the 
writin'  for  you." 


186       THE      LAST     PILOT      SCHOONER 

Wilson  was  eager  to  begin.  The  skip- 
per found  a  half -filled  log-book,  and  the 
butt  of  a  pencil,  and  the  reporter  sat  by 
the  pilot's  bunk,  and  wrote  with  frowning 
effort.  His  labor  was  so  evident  that  at 
length  the  interested  pilot  asked : 

"You  seem  to  be  making  heavy  weather 
of  it,  Jimmy.  Mind  my  lookin'  over  the 
nigh  end  of  it?" 

Wilson  passed  the  log-book  over  with  a 
flutter  of  expectancy.  He  was  proud  of 
his  opening  paragraphs.  He  flattered 
himself  that  he  had  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  tragedy  of  the  last  and  lost  pilot- 
schooner.  The  old  man  read  them  with 
puckered  brow,  and  laid  the  book  down 
without  comment.  Wilson  waited  and 
had  to  break  the  awkward  silence : 

"Anything  the  matter  with  that?" 

"Well,  I  had  only  a  common  school  ed- 
ucation, and  I've  been  at  sea  fifty  years. 
I'm  no  judge,  I  guess.  It's  too  high- 
falutin'  for  me.  Those  dictionary  words 
are  mighty  imposin',  and  the  opening 
verse  of  poetry  looks  gilt-edged.  But, 
well,  every  man  to  his  trade." 

The  very  young  reporter  looked  hurt, 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        187 

and  the  pilot  tried  to  soothe  him  by  flatly 
denying  the  truth  of  everything  he  had 
said.  Wilson  put  the  book  away  and 
went  on  deck.  In  his  mind  there  was 
a  glimmering  notion  that  his  literary 
method  might  be  open  to  criticism.  The 
old  fear  and  lack  of  self-confidence  came 
back.  He  would  rest  another  day  and  try 
again. 

Next  morning  the  brig  was  beating 
against  a  baffling  wind,  and  the  Delaware 
Capes  were  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
away.  A  mattress  was  brought  on  deck, 
and  the  old  man  was  laid  on  it  beneath  an 
awning.  He  was  growing  weaker,  and 
began  to  fret  when  he  found  the  brig  was 
making  so  little  headway  toward  her  port 
and  his  home.  Wilson  was  moody  and 
worried  about  his  comrade.  He  had  no 
heart  for  his  "story." 

After  a  while  the  British  skipper  sat 
down  beside  the  old  man,  and  began  to 
ask  him  about  the  loss  of  the  Albatross. 
The  pilot  began  with  the  start  of  the  last 
cruise,  and  with  crisp  and  homely  detail, 
and  with  many  breaks  in  his  voice,  he  car- 
ried the  tale  down  to  the  loss  of  the  ves- 


l88       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

sel,  the  loss  of  his  comrades,  and  the  escape 
of  the  oldest  and  youngest  of  those  that 
had  sailed  in  her.  And  because  he  felt  it 
all  so  deeply,  the  story  did  not  once  wan- 
der from  its  chartered  course. 

Wilson  pulled  himself  together  and 
picked  up  his  log-book.  He  felt  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  write  what  he  heard. 
When  he  had  finished,  the  scales  fell  from 
his  eyes,  for  at  a  great  price  he  had  been 
taught  to  discern  that  virtue  of  simplicity 
which  most  of  his  craft  must  spend  years 
to  learn.  When  the  pilot  fell  into  a  doze, 
he  stole  below  and  began  to  write  his 
"story."  It  was  not  all  as  the  pilot  had 
told  it,  but  its  backbone  and  its  vitals 
belonged  to  the  simple  and  untutored 
old  man.  Next  day  when  he  read  it  to 
"Pop"  Markle  the  pilot  brightened  and 
observed: 

"Any  sailor  could  understand  that,  my 
lad.  It  sounds  as  dodgasted  ordinary  as 
if  I  had  wrote  it  myself.  The  pilots  will 
think  a  heap  of  that  piece.  I  want  you  to 
hold  your  job,  sonny." 

The  third  day  passed,  and  then  the 
fourth,  and  the  booming  head  wind  was 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        189 

holding  the  lubberly  brig  out  of  sight  of 
the  Delaware  Capes.  The  pilot  insisted 
that  he  be  carried  on  deck  whenever  the 
sun  shone.  He  was  looking  for  the  Hen- 
lopen  light.  When  he  was  not  drowsy,  he 
would  talk  of  home  to  his  young  comrade, 
for  all  his  thoughts  were  flocking  thither. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  going  to  fetch  it, 
sonny,"  he  murmured  when  the  fifth  day 
broke  with  no  land  in  sight.  "It  looks 
like  you're  going  to  be  the  sole  survivor 
of  the  Albatross.  That  will  make  your 
piece  a  heap  stronger,  won't  it?  My  own 
boy  couldn't  have  done  more  for  me  than 
you  have.  If  we  don't  pick  up  the  Capes 
by  noon,  I  want  you  to  write  a  letter  for 
me  to  Mary,  that's  my  wife.  You  can 
take  it  ashore  at  Lewes.  You'll  find  the 
cottage  easy  enough.  And  you  must  go 
around  and  look  at  my  vegetubbles.  One 
of  my  boys  will  be  home,  and  he'll  see  that 
they  get  my  hulk  to  the  buryin'  ground. 
The  skipper  here  has  promised  to  anchor 
long  enough  to  send  me  ashore." 

Wilson  choked,  and  tried  to  cheer  the 
old  man.  But  the  faded  blue  eyes  were 
serene  with  the  foreknowledge  of  his  end. 


IQO       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

The  letter  was  written  at  his  dictation,  and 
Wilson  sobbed  while  he  went  below  to 
find  an  envelope  in  the  skipper's  desk. 
Then  the  pilot  tried  to  sign  it,  and  his 
knotted  brown  fingers  held  the  pencil 
while  Wilson  helped  him  trace  the  waver- 
ing: 

"Your  loving  Seth." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  this,  the  fifth 
day,  a  tiny  shaft,  like  a  beckoning  finger, 
cut  the  cloudless  western  skyline.  Seth 
Markle  heard  the  shouts  of  the  men  clus- 
tered forward  who  were  eager  to  bring 
him  the  longed-for  news.  Wilson  and  the 
skipper  came  to  him,  and  propped  him  up 
in  his  pillows  on  the  poop-deck. 

"Henlopen  light,"  he  whispered.  "Hen- 
lopen  light,  and  Lewes  just  around  the 
Point." 

The  dim  light  of  life  burned  brighter 
in  this  draught  of  hope,  but  soon  waned 
lower  than  before.  After  a  long  silence, 
the  old  man  tried  to  speak.  Wilson  put 
his  ear  close  to  the  resolute  mouth,  and 
could  barely  hear: 

"Tell  her  how  good  you've  been  to  me. 
I — I  hope  the  piece  is  all  right.  The  last 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER       191 

cruise.  .  .  .  Oh,  Mary,  you're  wait- 
ing around  the  Point  of  the  Cape." 

He  was  alive  until  sunset,  but  he  did  not 
speak,  except  once  when  Wilson  thought 
he  heard  a  fluttering  whisper  of  "Mary," 
and  after  that  the  rough-hewn  face  be- 
came very  peaceful. 

The  brig  crept  into  the  lee  of  the  Break- 
water soon  after  daylight  next  morning. 
Wilson  went  ashore  and  found  the  cot- 
tage with  the  marvelous  vegetable  gar- 
den, and  a  sweet-faced  woman  who  read 
her  letter  while  the  bearer  walked  softly 
among  the  cabbage  rows,  and  noted,  with 
a  quick  pang,  how  lovingly  they  had  been 
tended.  Presently  Mary  Markle  came 
to  him,  and  put  her  motherly  arms  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  through  her 
tears.  They  went  to  a  near-by  cottage 
where  dwelt  the  eldest  son.  There  Wil- 
son left  them.  Before  he  went  away  he 
said: 

"He  was  the  best  friend  I  ever  had. 
I'm  coming  down  day  after  to-morrow. 
May  I  go  to  the  church  with  you?" 

He  had  to  tarry  in  the  streets,  for  the 
news  had  spread,  and  other  weeping 


192       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

wives  of  pilots  and  seamen  pressed  around 
him.  When,  as  tenderly  as  possible,  he 
was  able  to  leave  them,  he  went  to  the  tele- 
graph office  and  sent  this  message  to  the 
managing  editor  of  the  Standard: 

"Just  landed.  Am  sole  survivor  of  pilot 
schooner  Albatross  run  down  and  found- 
ered a  week  ago.  Will  report  with  my 
story  at  noon." 

On  the  train  Wilson  added  to  his 
"story"  in  the  old  log-book  the  facts  of 
the  last  days  of  Pilot  Seth  Markle.  His 
pencil  quivered  and  balked  when  he  re- 
called the  words  and  face  of  his  gentle 
old  critic,  and  somehow,  through  his  tears, 
he  brought  the  narrative  of  the  last  cruise 
to  its  unadorned  conclusion.  Then  he 
closed  the  book  and  leaned  back  with  a 
great  weariness.  Now  he  was  passing 
that  bright  vista  of  shore  through  which 
he  had  first  seen  the  Bay,  where  he  had 
chosen  to  advance  rather  than  to  retreat. 
Those  intervening  days  seemed  like  years 
of  life.  He  had  gone  away  a  boy,  he  was 
coming  back  a  man. 

When  the  young  reporter  walked  into 
the  Standard  office,  the  first  man  to  greet 


THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER        193 

him  was  a  bald  and  bulky  stranger  with 
an  impressive  manner,  who  said : 

"Ah,  the  young  hero,  I  presume.  You 
had  a  great  streak  of  luck,  didn't  you? 
Glad  to  see  you  pulled  through.  My 
name  is  Wilson.  I'm  to  take  your  notes 
at  once  and  work  up  the  story  from  them. 
We're  going  to  play  as  the  leading  feat- 
ure in  to-morrow's  paper,  and  follow  up 
with  a  page  for  Sunday." 

Young  Wilson  looked  at  "Doc"  Wil- 
son with  a  new  assertiveness  and  threw 
back  his  slight  shoulders  as  he  replied: 

"No,  thank  you.  Nothing  doing.  My 
story  is  written,  and  it's  going  to  be 
turned  in  to  the  boss  as  it  stands.  I'm 
going  in  to  see  him  now." 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  snapped  "Doc"  Wil- 
son. "I  can  understand  your  wanting  to 
do  the  story,  and  your  head  being  swelled 
a  bit  and  all  that.  But  if  you  want  to 
hold  your  job  you'd  better  fork  over 
your  notes  without  any  more  fuss  about 
it.  The  old  man  passed  it  out  that  he 
was  going  to  fire  you,  anyhow.  I'll  say  a 
good  word  for  you  if  you  can  produce 
the  goods." 


194       THE      LAST      PILOT      SCHOONER 

Young  Wilson  brushed  past  his  elder, 
who  stood  dumbfounded  at  the  insolence 
of  the  "pup."  Then  the  managing  editor 
was  confronted  by  an  unabashed  intruder, 
who  announced: 

"Here's  my  story,  sir.  There's  about 
six  columns  of  it.  And  it's  all  ready  to  be 
edited.  And  no  'Doc'  Wilson  nor  any- 
body else  is  going  to  rewrite  it  until  you've 
passed  on  it." 

The  managing  editor  saw  a  bedraggled 
figure  with  a  firm-set  jaw  and  a  level 
glance  which  looked  him  squarely  in  the 
eyes.  He  took  in  the  sea-stained  clothes, 
and  the  burned  and  grimy  face,  and 
smiled  as  he  said: 

"I'll  read  it,  Mr.  Wilson.  Go  home  and 
come  back  at  six  o'clock.  Then  we'll  talk 
it  over.  You've  been  through  a  tremen- 
dous experience,  haven't  you?  It's  your 
story.  Don't  fret  about  that." 

When  James  Arbuthnot  Wilson  next 
entered  the  managing  editor's  office,  that 
dignified  personage  grasped  his  hand  and 
exclaimed: 

"My  son,  why  haven't  I  known  you 
could  write  a  story  like  this?  It's  the  real 


THE      LAST     PILOT     SCHOONER        195 

thing.  It's  a  masterpiece.  Where  did 
you  learn  how?" 

The  boy's  face  twitched  as  he  said  very 
slowly: 

"The  man  who  taught  me  how  died  in 
sight  of  home.  It's  his  story.  It  isn't  mine 
at  all.  I  want  a  day  off,  if  you  please, 
to  go  down  to  Lewes  again.  I'm — I'm 
the  last  of  the  Albatross." 


THE  JADE   TEAPOT 

PRIVATE  SAUNDERS,  of  the 
Ninth  Infantry,  was  flushed  and 
dazed  with  fever,  but  able  to  walk 
from  the  ambulance  up  a  stone  stairway 
into  what  looked  to  him  like  a  huge  and 
gilded  warehouse.  At  first  glance,  he  did 
not  see  the  long  rows  of  cots  whose  gray 
blankets  blended  with  the  carpet  of  dusk 
and  shadow  in  the  late  winter  afternoon. 
Monstrous  golden  dragons  seemed  to 
writhe  and  flicker  against  the  roof  beams 
far  above  him,  or  twist  in  play  on  lines  of 
massive  columns.  Saunders  dropped  his 
kit  and  leaned  on  his  rifle  while  he  rubbed 
his  eyes  with  a  trembling  hand.  If  this 
was  the  hospital  of  the  American  army  in 
Peking,  he  wished  that  some  one  would 
turn  out  the  guard  and  capture  the  me- 
nagerie that  had  taken  possession.  Slid- 
ing uncertain  feet  across  the  flagged 
floor,  he  fell  over  a  cot  and  gripped  a  pro- 
testing leg,  whose  owner  sputtered: 
196 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  197 

"Get  off  o'  me,  you  left-footed  lobster. 
Ain't  there  no  chance  for  a  man  to  be  sick 
without  the  roof  fallin'  on  him?  Why, 
hello,  Jim,  what  in  blazes  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Brace  up  and  holler  for  the 
orderly.  He's  somewhere  down  at  the 
end  of  the  line,  packin'  up  what's  left  of 
Chase  of  P  Company,  who  just  passed 
in  his  checks." 

Saunders  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cot 
and  wept  with  the  whimper  of  a  tired 
child: 

"Is  it  the  hospital  sure  enough,  Shorty? 
All  them  ten-foot  dragons  makin'  faces 
at  me  in  the  dark  ain't  comfortin'  to  a 
man  with  wheels  in  his  head.  Guess  this 
must  be  the  Emp'ror's  private  temple. 
Why,  here's  a  dozen  o'  my  pals  spraddled 
around  over  the  floor.  I've  hit  the  right 
place,  all  right.  Lead  me  to  my  bunk,  an' 
get  me  bedded  down." 

The  overworked  hospital  corps  private, 
who  was  nurse  and  orderly  for  the  ward, 
picked  up  the  accouterments  of  Saunders, 
and  helped  him  crawl  under  the  blankets 
of  the  cot  alongside  "Shorty"  Blake.  The 
contract  surgeon,  delaying  to  question  a 


198  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

group  of  convalescents  in  the  court-yard, 
came  in  to  examine  the  new  patient,  and 
said  "pneumonia"  to  the  nurse.  Saun- 
ders  heard  nothing  of  the  consultation, 
for  he  was  looking  up  into  the  gloom  of 
the  distant  rafters,  and  trying  to  count 
the  racing  gilded  dragons  that  would  not 
be  still  and  made  his  head  ache  intolerably. 
When  lanterns  were  lighted  at  the  ends  of 
each  aisle,  the  shadows  danced  worse  than 
before,  and  to  his  fevered  eyes  the  great 
temple  was  populous  with  glittering 
shapes  in  terrifying  agitation. 

This,  the  largest  of  the  clustered  build- 
ings in  the  park  of  the  Temple  of  Earth, 
was  an  extraordinary  hospital,  even  in 
daylight.  Sacred  to  the  annual  pilgrim- 
age of  the  Emperor  in  his  worship  of  the 
Supreme  Deity,  these  temples  had  been 
inviolate  for  many  centuries  until  pro- 
faned by  the  conquering  foreign  allies. 
The  walled  park  became  the  camp  of 
the  American  forces,  and  one  of  the  most 
sacred  shrines  of  the  land  was  used  as 
a  field  hospital.  A  regiment  could  have 
been  drilled  on  the  marble  pavement  with- 
out crowding,  and  the  two  hundred  sick 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  199 

soldiers  scattered  in  the  vastness  of  it  were 
bitten  with  a  sense  of  chilling  desolation. 

Between  flights  of  delirium,  through 
his  first  night  in  hospital,  Saunders  heard 
the  groans  and  restless  muttering  of  many 
men,  and  his  fancies  magnified  them  into 
an  army.  There  were  neither  screens  nor 
walls  to  divide  the  wards,  only  the  rows 
of  cots  between  the  carved  pillars  that 
marched  across  the  temple  floor,  so  that 
all  individual  suffering  and  the  tenacious 
struggle  of  dying  became  common  prop- 
erty. The  soldiers  who  passed  away  in 
the  night  time  did  not  trouble  their  com- 
rades so  much  as  when  death  came  in  day- 
light, and  the  end  was  a  spectacle  thrust 
upon  those  in  surrounding  cots. 

A  little  after  midnight  the  tramp  of 
stretcher  bearers  punctuated  a  thin  and 
wailing  outcry,  coming  from  that  which 
they  bore,  and  the  temple  floor  awoke  with 
weary  curses.  Those  near  the  doorway 
learned  that  a  Chinese  coolie,  caught  in 
the  act  of  stealing  coal  from  the  quarter- 
master's corral,  had  been  tumbled  off  a 
wall  by  a  sentry's  shot.  The  lamentations 
of  the  victim  rasped  sick  nerves  beyond 


200  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

endurance,  and  the  hospital  held  no  sym- 
pathy in  its  smallest  crevice.  The  coolie 
was  an  old  man  and  badly  hurt.  Opium 
had  made  him  impervious  to  customary 
doses  of  morphine,  and  after  he  had  been 
drugged  in  quantities  to  kill  four  men, 
he  was  no  nearer  rest.  From  a  far  corner 
of  the  temple  the  wounded  coolie  wailed 
an  unending 

"Ay  oh"— "Ay  oh"— "Ay  oh!" 
Soldiers  rose  in  their  blankets  and  made 
uproar  with  cries  of — 
"Kill  him!" 
"Smother  the  brute!" 
"Give  him  an  overdose!" 
"Now,  ain't  this  an  outrage !" 
"Hi,  there,  One  Lung,  give  us  a  rest, 
for  God's  sake!" 

"Throw  him  out  in  the  yard." 
Daylight   brought   to    Saunders    infi- 
nitely   grateful    respite    from    a    world 
through  which  he  had  fled  from  flaming 
dragons  that  shrieked,  as  if  in  torture: 
"Ay  oh"— "Ay  oh"— "Ay  oh!" 
The  grip  of  his  delirium  weakened  in 
a  few  days,  and  the  surgeon  called  him  a 
"mild  case."     At  the  end   of  a  week, 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  2OI 

Saunders  was  able  to  sit  up  a  little  and 
talk  with  the  men  around  him.  But  the 
violence  of  these  early  impressions  in  hos- 
pital had  unstrung  a  system  drained  by 
long  service  in  the  Philippines,  and  by  the 
contrasting  hardships  of  the  cold  winter 
in  North  China.  The  gloomy  temple 
frightened  the  soldier,  for  sometimes  the 
private  has  nerves,  but  he  kept  his  fears  to 
himself,  thinking  them  womanish.  He 
fell  to  brooding  too  much  of  home,  and 
the  more  he  dwelt  upon  the  distance  be- 
tween Peking  and  those  who  loved  him  the 
more  insistent  became  his  morbid  fear  that 
he  would  not  go  back  with  his  company. 

It  happened  almost  daily  that  the  Ninth 
Regiment  band  trailed  through  the  hos- 
pital compound,  playing  a  dead  march. 
There  was  always  a  halt  in  front  of  the 
stone  stairway,  and  after  a  few  moments 
the  dragging  music  sounded  fainter  and 
farther  away.  A  little  later  those  in  the 
temple  could  barely  hear  the  silvery  wail 
of  "taps"  floating  from  a  corner  of  the 
outer  wall,  where  a  line  of  mounds  was 
growing  longer  week  by  week.  Then  the 
band  returned,  playing  a  Sousa  march  or 


202  THE     JADE      TEAPOT 

a  "rag-time"  medley.  The  listeners  in 
hospital  filled  in  the  gaps  between  the 
music,  and  the  mind  of  Saunders  was 
busiest  of  them  all  in  picturing  the  routine 
of  a  soldier's  funeral  in  Peking. 

The  surgeons  looked  him  over  in  morn- 
ing inspection  rounds,  and  said  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  to  prevent  his  recov- 
ery. "Shorty"  Blake  and  "Bat"  Jenkins 
of  P  Company  strove  to  make  Saunders 
take  some  interest  in  life,  and  would  have 
been  cheered  if  he  had  even  sworn  at  the 
rations  and  the  lack  of  hospital  com- 
forts. They  brought  him  jam  and  con- 
densed milk  from  the  commissary-ser- 
geant, which  he  refused  to  eat;  they 
assembled  around  his  cot  the  most  viva- 
cious convalescents,  selecting  as  enter- 
tainers those  valiant  in  poker  and  cam- 
paign stories.  Finally  Saunders  was 
persuaded  to  overhaul  his  haversack  and 
show  his  slender  store  of  souvenirs  gath- 
ered in  Peking.  Blake  and  Jenkins 
moved  over  to  pass  opinion  on  the  riches, 
and  Saunders  welcomed  them  tremu- 
lously: 

"I  was  plannin'  to  take  some  things 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  203 

home  to  mother  and  sister,"  he  began, 
"but  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  get  much 
while  .the  lootin*  was  busy.  Wouldn't 
have  done  me  any  good  if  I  had,  when 
the  captain  had  the  tents  searched  and 
collared  most  of  the  company  stuff.  I 
ain't  sorry  I  missed  it  on  the  loot,  for  the 
old  lady  'ud  throw  out  o'  the  window  all 
the  stuff  I  sent  her,  if  she  thought  it 
wasn't  paid  for.  She's  fierce  in  backin' 
foreign  missions,  an'  the  Chinamen  is  her 
purticuler  pets." 

Shorty  broke  in  with  an  oath:  "Yes,  I 
know  all  about  P  Company's  captain  and 
his  hair-trigger  conscience.  He  swiped 
all  our  loot,  but  he  sent  home  forty-seven 
mail  packages,  duty  free.  I  got  that 
from  the  postal  clerk.  What  you  got 
left,  Saunders?" 

The  invalid  spread  an  embroidered 
panel  of  crimson  satin  and  a  roll  of  blue 
silk  on  the  edge  of  his  cot,  and  threw  a 
handful  of  silver  ornaments  and  a  cloi- 
sonne snuff-box  on  the  blankets. 

"I  didn't  loot  even  this  stuff,"  he  said, 
with  an  apologetic  air,  "but  bought  it 
along  the  Chien-men  Road,  so  it  could  go 


204  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

to  the  home  folks  with  a  clean  bill  of 
ladin'." 

The  spectators  sniffed  incredulously, 
but  with  unexpected  tact  hid  any  livelier 
display  of  doubt. 

"Why  don't  you  mail  the  goods  home 
with  a  letter,  and  send  a  good  jolly?"  said 
Jenkins.  "We'll  get  'em  off  for  you. 
There's  a  mail  wagon  goin'  to  Tientsin 
early  to-morrow  mornin'.  Tell  the  old 
lady  you're  fat  an'  sassy.  She'll  call  in 
the  whole  village  to  show  'em  the  presents 
from  her  brave  soldier  boy  out  among 
them  poor,  benighted,  gentle,  murderous 
Chinese  heathen." 

Saunders  rallied  for  the  afternoon, 
scrawled  a  letter,  and  sent  his  gifts.  Then 
he  buried  his  head  in  the  blankets  and 
wept,  the  effort  having  stirred  new  depths 
of  hopeless  homesickness.  Through  the 
following  week  he  failed  to  gain  in 
strength  and  spirits,  and  the  surgeon  men- 
tioned "nostalgia"  once  or  twice  in  chat- 
ting with  the  nurse. 

"He  may  lie  there  and  flutter  out,  with 
no  disease  worth  a  diagnosis,"  said  the 
"medico."  "The  poor  idiot  thinks  he 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  SOJ 

would  die  on  the  way  if  he  was  shipped 
across  country  to  Taku,  to  connect  with  a 
transport;  and  he's  sure  he'll  be  buried 
if  he  stays  here.  If  we  can  get  a  little 
strength  in  him,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  to 
get  him  started  home." 

Saunders  was  not  yet  a  dying  man,  but 
the  natural  process  of  recovery  seemed  at 
a  standstill.  There  came  a  sharp  turn  for 
the  worse  after  "Shorty"  Blake  limped  in 
with  a  letter,  which  he  tossed  to  the  lan- 
guid private  with  a  cheery  shout  of — 

"Wake  up,  Jim;  here's  the  latest  news 
from  home.  Hurry  and  tell  us  the  price 
of  butter  an'  eggs  at  the  corner  store." 

But  Saunders  read  the  letter  in  silence, 
and  while  he  read,  his  thin  young  face 
twitched,  tears  came,  and  the  helpless 
length  of  him  moved  in  little  jerks  that 
rippled  the  blankets. 

The  chaffing  queries  of  his  comrades 
were  unanswered,  and  the  patient  seemed 
to  be  asleep  through  the  afternoon  and 
evening.  When  the  light  of  the  next 
morning  filtered  through  the  latticed 
windows  of  oiled  paper,  "Shorty"  Blake 
saw  Saunders  grope  for  the  letter  under 


206  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

the  blanket  roll  that  served  him  for  a 
pillow,  and  read  it  again.  His  voice  was 
weaker  than  before,  as  he  beckoned  Blake 
and  Jenkins  to  the  cot,  and  said : 

"Here's  what  comes  of  my  leavin'  home 
to  be  buried  in  this  muck-heap  of  a  town — 
an'  my  folks  turned  out  to  starve.  You 
might  as  well  read  it,  though  you  can't  do 
any  good." 

Shorty  saw  a  woman's  handwriting, 
and  he  took  the  closely  written  sheets  with 
singular  gentleness.  The  spelling  was 
imperfect  in  spots,  and  there  were  many 
erasures,  but  he  stumbled  through  the  un- 
certain lines,  which  said: 

"MY  DEAREST  SON — 

"No  letter  has  come  from  you  since  you 
left  the  Philippines,  but  I'm  sure  you  are 
all  right,  because  no  notice  has  come  to 
me  from  the  War  Department  as  your 
next  of  kin.  All  I  know  is  that  your  regi- 
ment is  in  Peking,  and  I  hope  and  pray 
you  are  with  it,  all  safe  and  sound.  Sister 
Mary  and  me  are  pretty  busy,  as  there 
has  been  no  one  to  help  us  with  the  place 
since  your  brother  died  last  spring.  I 
know  your  enlistment  ain't  up  for  another 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  207 

year,  and  it's  wicked  to  desert,  and  they 
would  shoot  you  for  it  anyhow,  and  whom 
the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth ;  but  it  does 
seem  kind  of  hard  when  we  want  you  so 
much  at  home  that  you  have  to  be  fighting 
them  poor  Chinamen  when  I've  been 
sending  money  for  their  souls  these  thirty- 
seven  years.  But  as  long  as  we  all  have 
our  health  there  ain't  any  real  troubles  I 
suppose. 

"I  don't  mean  to  find  fault  and  you 
mustn't  worry  about  us.  I'm  as  active 
as  a  cricket  and  Mary  hasn't  been  ailin' 
any  to  speak  of.  It's  been  a  good  long 
spell  of  dry  weather,  and  that's  good  for 
my  rheumatism,  but  it  wasn't  very  en- 
couraging for  the  crops.  The  mortgage  on 
the  house  and  farm  is  due  in  six  weeks,  and 
I  can't  get  a  renewal,  though  it's  only  six 
hundred  dollars,  as  you  know.  The  bank 
people  is  that  haughty  about  the  thing 
that  I  don't  exactly  see  how  we  can  get 
around  them. 

"But  where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way, 
and  the  Lord  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb,  and  if  we  ain't  got  any  cash, 
there's  others  worse  off.  Your  uncle 
Joseph  is  breakin'  up  fast,  and  he's  ten 
years  younger  than  me.  He's  the  last  of 


208  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

the  tribe  that's  left  on  either  side,  and  his 
family  won't  have  anything  to  spare  when 
he's  gone.  Of  course  it's  hard  to  think  of 
losing  our  old  place,  but  I'm  still  pretty 
spry,  and  my  black  silk  is  good  as  new. 
I  can't  just  quite  tell  where  Mary  and  me 
will  be  if  we  leave  home  so  soon,  but  you 
write  just  the  same  and  the  postmaster 
will  know.  You  remember  him,  that 
stumpy,  light-haired  Jameson  that  mar- 
ried one  of  the  Martins. 

"God  bless  you,  my  poor  wandering 
boy.  Your  loving 

"MOTHER." 

Jenkins  was  reading  over  "Shorty's" 
shoulder,  and  several  hairy  faces  framed 
in  gray  blankets  had  edged  silently 
nearer. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  said 
a  Sixth  Cavalry  corporal.  "And  here's 
Saunders  been  givin'  up  the  ghost  without 
havin'  any  real  troubles.  Now  it's  time 
for  you  to  brace  up,  and  beg,  borrow,  or 
steal  the  dough  and  shoot  it  along  to  the 
old  homestead.  That  letter  was  written 
more  'n  a  month  ago." 

But  Saunders  had  turned  his  face  away 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  209 

and  was  a  useless  member  of  the  ways  and 
means  committee,  which  convened  with 
"Shorty"  Blake  as  chairman.  A  praise- 
worthy burst  of  philanthropic  ardor  sub- 
sided when  it  met  the  cold  fact  that  the 
paymaster  had  not  visited  camp  in  two 
months,  arid  was  not  expected  in  Peking 
before  three  weeks  later.  Investigation 
revealed  also  that  nearly  all  the  available 
cash  in  P  Company  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  three  expert  poker  players,  who 
were  reported  as  being  "hard  as  nails,  and 
wouldn't  give  a  dollar  to  save  their  own 
mothers  from  the  poorhouse." 

Saunders  showed  no  symptoms  of  in- 
terest in  these  endeavors,  largely  because 
he  foresaw  their  magnificent  futility.  He 
was  in  a  condition  of  hopeless  apathy,  and 
beyond  rereading  the  letter  from  home 
now  and  then,  made  no  effort  to  rally. 
He  kept  a  tally  of  the  days  remaining 
before  the  foreclosure  of  the  mortgage, 
with  a  series  of  thumb-nail  scratches  on 
the  frame  of  his  cot. 

There  were  twelve  days  to  be  marked 
off  when  "Shorty"  Blake,  who  had  been 
discharged  as  cured,  clattered  into  the 


210  THE     JADE      TEAPOT 

ward,  and  yelled  as  he  leaned  over 
Saunders : 

"I  lost  track  of  my  dates  while  I  was  in 
this  gold-plated  asylum,  and  my  discharge 
is  due  to-day,  and  I  was  figurin'  my  enlist- 
ment wasn't  up  for  another  week.  There's 
a  squad  of  discharged  men  goin'  down  to 
Tientsin  in  a  wagon-train  to-morrow,  and 
I've  drawn  my  travel  pay,  got  my  papers, 
and  I'm  off  for  little  old  New  York. 
Here's  where  I  drop  off  on  the  way  an' 
do  what  I  can  for  your  old  folks  in  Kan- 
sas. Got  anything  you  want  to  send 
them?" 

Saunders  became  almost  animated  as  he 
rolled  over  and  tried  to  speak  in  a  flutter- 
ing whisper : 

"I  ain't  got  any  money  for  'em;  but  tell 
'em  I  was  doin'  well  when  you  left  me, 
and  to  keep  their  nerve,  an'  I'll  get  back 
as  fast  as  I  can.  But  speakin'  between  us, 
Shorty,  there's  nothin'  doin'  for  me,  and 
I'll  be  planted  before  you  get  to  'Frisco. 
Maybe  I've  got  some  little  trick  to  send 
along.  Wait  a  minute.  Fish  around  un- 
der the  cot  and  find  me  a  roll  of  rubber 
blankets." 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  211 

The  uproarious  "Shorty"  opened  the 
bundle  and  disclosed  a  jade  teapot,  in  a 
wrapping  of  wadded  silk.  It  was  a  flaw- 
less bit  of  carving,  fashioned  from  a  solid 
block  of  imperial  green  jade,  no  more 
than  a  pretty  toy  to  the  soldiers,  who  ex- 
amined it  indifferently  and  wondered  why 
Saunders  wished  to  send  it  to  his  mother. 

"It's  the  last  thing  I've  got,"  he  ex- 
plained, "and  the  last  present  they'll  ever 
get  from  me.  I  think  they'd  like  to  know 
I  wasn't  so  blamed  forgetful  at  the  finish. 
Just  lug  it  along,  Shorty,  an'  if  it  don't 
get  broke  on  the  way,  you  can  mail  it 
when  you  cross  the  country." 

The  wish  and  the  token  were  a  sick 
man's  whim  to  Blake,  but  he  wrapped  the 
jade  teapot  and  tucked  it  in  a  soft  corner 
of  his  haversack  when  he  packed  his  kit 
late  that  night.  He  was  vaguely  aware 
that  his  purpose  of  finding  the  distressed 
family  of  Saunders  would  not  survive  the 
journey  home,  yet  he  had  meant  it  when  he 
made  the  promise.  He  believed  Saunders 
as  good  as  dead,  because  he  had  seen  men 
die  of  homesickness  in  the  field  hospitals 
of  the  Philippines. 


212  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

"I'll  send  his  silly  teapot  to  his  folks," 
he  told  another  discharged  private  of  P 
Company,  as  they  climbed  into  a  four- 
mule  wagon  next  morning;  "and  I'm 
sorry  I  can't  help  him  out,  same  as  you 
are.  If  the  doctor  would  pack  the  poor 
fool  in  a  wagon  and  ship  him  to  the  sea, 
he  couldn't  any  more  than  die  on  the  way, 
and  there  'd  be  a  fightin'  chance  he'd 
brace  up." 

With  this  farewell  tribute  of  sympathy, 
the  fortunes  of  Private  Saunders  slipped 
into  the  background  among  the  varied 
interests  which  occupied  the  attention  of 
the  late  Private  Blake  along  his  route  to 
Taku  Bar. 

In  the  hospital,  Saunders  continued  to 
let  go  his  grip  on  life  as  gently  as  possible. 
Tangible  woe  and  regret  had  become  ac- 
tive agents  in  assisting  the  passive  manner 
of  his  fading  away.  A  new  major-sur- 
geon came  up  from  Tientsin  to  assume 
charge  of  the  hospital,  and  he  was  angry 
when  he  examined  Saunders  and  heard 
the  history  of  the  case.  "That  man  is 
dying  of  homesickness  and  worry,"  he 
growled  to  the  hospital  corps  private  in 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  213 

the  ward;  "and  now  he  hasn't  enough 
vitality  left  in  him  to  risk  moving  in  an 
ambulance.  He'd  snuff  out  like  a  candle 
on  the  way  to  Tientsin,  and  you  can't  keep 
him  alive  more  than  two  weeks  longer. 
He  may  as  well  die  in  some  comfort  as 
be  jolted  to  death." 

Much  of  the  time  in  the  following  week 
Saunders  hovered  along  the  borderland  of 
dreams  which  were  not  wholly  disquieting, 
for  he  had  become  on  friendly  terms  with 
the  gilded  dragons  on  the  shadowy  raft- 
ers, and  now  and  then  they  talked  to  him. 
The  sick  men  of  P  Company  had  been 
sent  back  to  duty,  and  Saunders  did  not 
know  those  who  had  taken  their  places 
along  his  aisle  of  the  columned  temple. 
When  he  noticed  them,  it  was  to  whisper 
little  inconsequential  memories  of  home, 
and  to  tell  passers-by  of  some  new  discov- 
ery gleaned  from  an  intimate  familiarity 
with  numberless  gilded  dragons  that 
never  slept.  He  still  noted  the  tally 
marks  on  the  frame  of  his  cot,  and  when 
he  was  too  weak  to  reach  them,  the  man 
in  the  nearest  cot  scratched  a  cross  for  him 
until  only  seven  marks  remained.  The 


214  THE     JADE      TEAPOT 

letter  was  no  longer  read,  but  the  tragedy 
it  told  was  woven  through  much  of  the 
delirious  talk  of  the  patient. 

Meantime  "Shorty"  Blake  had  been 
routed  with  heavy  loss  among  the  canteens 
and  other  diversions  of  Tientsin,  and, 
greatly  the  worse  for  wear,  made  his  way 
to  Taku  and  boarded  a  Japanese  trans- 
port bound  for  Nagasaki.  He  went  ashore 
in  that  entertaining  port  with  three  Mex- 
ican dollars  as  the  melancholy  remnant  of 
his  pay  and  travel  allowance  "to  the  place 
of  enlistment,"  and  presented  his  papers 
to  the  American  quartermaster  stationed 
in  Nagasaki,  who  gave  him  an  order  for 
transportation  on  the  next  United  States 
transport  sailing  for  San  Francisco. 

Discharged  Private  Blake  was  much 
disconcerted  when  he  was  informed  that 
no  Government  vessel  was  to  stop  en  route 
from  Manila  in  less  than  two  weeks,  and 
that  he  was  stranded  "on  the  beach,"  with 
several  other  recent  losses  to  the  fighting 
strength  of  the  army  in  the  Orient.  A 
bundle  of  looted  silk  had  been  exchanged 
in  Tientsin  for  bottles  of  astonishing 
Scotch  whiskey  made  in  Shanghai,  and 


THE     JADE      TEAPOT  2IJ 

there  was  nothing  else  of  cash  value  in  the 
light  marching  order  of  ex-private  Blake. 
He  hired  a  room  in  a  toy-like  Japanese 
hotel,  and  late  that  night  returned  without 
his  three  Mexican  dollars,  but  with  the 
perverted  energy  of  a  runaway  automo- 
bile. Charging  headlong  through  the 
dainty  paper  walls  of  the  hotel  rather 
than  be  annoyed  by  trying  to  find  the 
door  mobilized  a  small  army  of  Japanese 
policemen,  and  memory  came  back  to 
Blake  when  he  was  dragged  into  the 
street,  his  haversack  hurled  at  his  head 
by  the  agitated  landlord. 

Daylight  found  him  very  thirsty  and 
nervous,  wandering  along  the  edge  of  the 
bay,  waiting  for  a  glimpse  of  a  blue  army 
blouse  and  the  tenuous  hope  of  a  small 
loan.  He  leaned  against  the  stone  wall  of 
the  Hatoba,  with  his  haversack  under  his 
tortured  head,  and  twisted  as  his  cheek 
rubbed  a  hard  lump  beneath  the  canvas. 
Ramming  his  hand  into  the  haversack  with 
a  peevish  curse,  "Shorty"  pulled  out  a 
package  wrapped  in  wadded  silk,  and  un- 
rolled a  teapot  of  green  imperial  jade.  A 
stocky  manikin  of  the  Nagasaki  police 


2l6  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

was  standing  near,  and  the  soldier  ad- 
dressed him  and  the  sleeping  harbor  with- 
out partiality : 

"If  I  didn't  forget  all  about  Jim  Saun- 
ders  and  his  teapot,  I'm  a  liar.  An'  he 
must  be  dead  an'  planted  by  this  time,  an' 
the  old  homestead  gone  to  hell,  an'  nothin' 
left  but  this  looney  little  teapot  as  his  last 
will  an'  testament.  I'll  surely  send  it  to 
Kansas  all  right,  tho'  it  ain't  goin'  to  cheer 
the  old  lady  very  much.  The  teapot  must 
be  worth  as  much  as  a  dollar  and  a 
half." 

Then  the  demon  of  thirst  gripped  Blake 
by  the  throat,  and  the  eff ort  of  swallow- 
ing fairly  shook  him.  He  slipped  the  tea- 
pot into  his  haversack,  and  to  his  credit 
it  must  be  told  that  he  struggled  with 
temptation  for  several  minutes.  Then  he 
muttered  weakly:  "I  ain't  goin'  to  sell 
it.  The  teapot  will  be  all  safe  in  hock 
till  I  can  send  for  it  or  make  a  strike. 
Who's  goin'  to  know  the  difference,  any- 
way? Saunders  had  no  business  to  pass 
away  like  a  sick  chicken,  an'  load  me 
up  with  this  billy-be-damned  piece  of  bric- 
a-brac." 


THE     JADE      TEAPOT  217 

But  shops  and  saloons  were  not  yet 
opened,  and  "Shorty"  Blake  walked 
heavily  along  many  blocks  of  silent 
streets,  his  thirst  more  raging  and  insist- 
ent as  he  found  himself  thwarted.  Every 
scruple  vanished  and  he  was  ready  to  sell 
the  teapot  for  the  price  of  a  pint  flask  of 
anything  searching  and  fiery. 

The  rattle  of  rickshaw  wheels  made  him 
suddenly  alert,  and  he  stumbled  toward 
the  sound.  As  he  turned  a  corner  there 
was  a  collision,  and  the  racing  coolie  in 
the  shafts  slid  on  his  head,  while  the  pas- 
senger barely  saved  himself  from  an 
ugly  backward  fall.  The  Japanese  officer 
so  nearly  upset  accepted  the  awkward 
apologies  of  the  soldier  derelict  and  po- 
litely asked  whether  he  had  been  hurt. 
"Shorty"  pulled  himself  together  and, 
saluting  instinctively,  he  spoke  with 
breathless  haste: 

"No,  sir,  no  damage  done,  and  I  hope 
you  wer'n't  shook  up ;  but  don't  you  want 
to  buy  a  prime  jade  teapot,  and  help  out 
an  American  soldier  who's  broke,  an'  ain't 
got  no  other  means  of  support?  I  know 
it  ain't  worth  much,  bein'  nothin'  but 


2l8  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

a  toy,  but  I  need  the  price,  whatever 
it  is." 

The  officer  bowed  as  if  honored  by  the 
confidence,  and  replied:  "It  is  not  cus- 
tomary to  sell  jade  teapots  in  the  streets  so 
early  in  the  morning,  and  I  am  in  the 
hurry  to  arrive  with  my  duty.  But  Japan 
and  America  are  so  great  friends  since 
Peking,  eh?  Is  it  not?  A-h,  is  th-a-a-t  the 
jade,  and  from  Peking,  eh?  I  do  not 
know  everything  about  jade,  but  there  are 
many  good  times  for  you  in  that  teapot; 
ha,  ha!  I  think  so.  I  am  not  so  mean  to 
rob  the  honorable  soldier.  You  will  make 
a  borrow  of  this  two  yen — two  dollars — all 
right,  eh?  And  you  will  take  my  card  and 
the  teapot  will  come  with  you  at  my  house 
at  noon  hour,  eh?" 

Before  the  beclogged  brain  of  "Shorty" 
Blake  had  caught  up  with  these  direc- 
tions, the  rickshaw  was  whisking  around 
a  curve  of  the  hillside,  and  the  derelict  was 
left  staring  after,  the  jade  teapot  in  one 
hand,  and  two  one-yen  notes  in  the  other. 
Visions  of  wealth  made  him  tingle,  and  he 
rewrapped  the  treasure  with  reverent  de- 
liberation. Then  began  another  battle 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  219 

with  a  battered  fragment  of  a  conscience, 
and  the  voice  of  Saunders  was  so  distinct 
in  his  ear  that  he  turned  suddenly  more 
than  once  to  mutter  to  the  empty  street: 

"I'm  on  the  edge  of  the  shivers.  It's  a 
bad  sign  when  you  hear  voices  as  plain  as 
that.  It's  that  baby  whine  of  his,  always 
cryin',  'Ten  days  more  an'  the  folks  will  be 
homeless  and  starvin',  an'  I  can't  do 
nothin'.' 

"Holy  smoke !  I've  heard  that  string  of 
dates  often  enough  to  keep  track  of  'em. 
An'  there's  three  more  days  leeway  or  I've 
missed  my  count.  An'  me  with  a  fortune 
in  this  little  monkey-doodle  teapot,  if  that 
Jap  wasn't  stringin'  me." 

From  stories  told  later  to  his  "bunkie" 
on  the  transport,  it  is  probable  that 
"Shorty"  Blake  passed  through  great 
mental  stress  during  the  forenoon  of  his 
second  day  in  Nagasaki,  but  that  this  or- 
deal was  nothing  compared  with  his  tor- 
ments after  an  interview  with  a  wealthy 
dealer  in  curios  at  the  home  of  a  major  of 
Japanese  infantry  on  the  hill.  There  is 
reason  to  believe  that  the  discharged  pri- 
vate of  the  China  Relief  Expedition  kept 


220  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

his  appointment  in  a  fairly  sober  condi- 
tion, although  much  shaken  and  easily 
startled.  An  hour  later,  the  Japanese 
officer  accompanied  "Shorty"  Blake  to  the 
telegraph  office  and  the  branch  of  the 
Hong  Kong  and  Shanghai  Bank,  with  an 
ah*  of  anxious  guardianship,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  see  a  wavering  project  through 
to  the  finish.  Shorty  skipped  references 
to  his  escort  in  subsequent  narratives,  as 
if  the  topic  were  painful,  dismissing  his 
interview  with  the  sweeping  summary: 

"I  had  to  go  an'  put  that  little  Jap  wise 
to  the  whole  hard-luck  story  of  Jim  Saun- 
ders.  Then  he  talked  to  me  like  a  Dutch 
uncle,  and  had  me  on  the  mourners'  bench 
in  no  time.  Them  Japs  is  strong  on  filial 
duty,  and  he  never  let  up  on  me  till  the  job 
was  done." 

Twenty-four  hours  later,  the  Signal 
Corps  operator  at  the  American  army  sta- 
tion in  Peking  copied  a  message  addressed 
to  "J.  Saunders,  P  Company,  Ninth  In- 
fantry, Field  Hospital  No.  1." 

"Sold  teapot  for  eight  hundred  dollars 
gold.  Have  cabled  six  hundred  to  old 


THE     JADE     TEAPOT  221 

lady  to  bust  mortgage.  Will  bust  Naga- 
saki wide  open  with  balance.  If  not  dead, 
brace  up. 

(Signed)         "SHORTY." 

It  seemed  indecent  to  carry  this  tele- 
gram to  the  bedside  of  Private  Saunders. 
He  had  lost  all  interest  in  the  world  of 
men  and  things,  yet  was  inexplicably  lin- 
gering, as  if  caught  in  an  eddy  as  he 
drifted  out.  Fantasies  had  fled,  and  his 
mind  was  cjearing,  as  if  to  pay  some  heed 
to  the  important  business  of  ceasing  to  be. 
The  message  was  first  read  by  the  major- 
surgeon,  and  there  was  more  than  profes- 
sional interest  in  his  tone,  as  he  said  to  the 
nurse  of  the  ward : 

"Give  that  man  ten  drops  of  digitalis 
and  a  dose  of  brandy,  and  try  to  wake  him 
up  enough  to  understand  this  telegram. 
It's  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  may  pull 
him  through.  He  told  me  his  troubles, 
and  this  ought  to  be  his  salvation." 

The  powerful  stimulants  stirred  a  cur- 
rent of  life  in  Saunders,  and  he  heard  and 
comprehended  the  tidings  from  "Shorty" 
Blake,  and  the  heroic  compromise  of  that 


222  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

distressed  soul  who  had  saved  the  home  of 
his  "pal,"  but  could  not  let  go  his  grip  on 
the  remainder  of  the  windfall.  The  in- 
valid gulped  and  there  was  almost  the 
shadow  of  a  grin  in  his  stammering 
whisper : 

"That  b-b-blamed  fool  Shorty  is  a 

angel,  ain't  he?  I-I  don't  b-believe  I'm 
d-dead  yet.  Say,  can  I  go  home  if  I'll  get 
strong  enough  to  stand  the  hike?" 

This  effort  exhausted  Saunders  and  he 
slept  awhile.  The  surgeon  was  taking  his 
pulse  when  he  awoke,  and  the  friendly 
nurse  holding  a  cup  of  beef  tea  to  his 
lips. 

"You  seem  to  have  quit  making  an  ass 
of  yourself,"  said  the  surgeon;  "and  I've 
seen  your  company  commander  this  after- 
noon. If  you  can  work  up  enough 
strength  to  stand  the  trip  to  the  coast, 
I'll  see  that  your  discharge  papers  are 
made  out.  You'll  be  no  more  good  to  the 
army." 

The  same  inducement  had  previously 
failed  to  interest  Saunders,  but  now  he 
had  determined  to  live,  in  the  mighty  in- 
spiration of  joy  and  hope  renewed.  He 


THE    JADE     TEAPOT  223 

drank  beef  tea  and  begged  for  more,  and 
when  he  flashed  a  feeble  sputter  of  pro- 
fanity because  he  was  not  allowed  a  bit  of 
bacon,  the  ward  became  noisily  cheerful. 
The  captain  of  P  Company  was  not  a 
hard  man,  but  he  had  suspected  Saunders 
of  malingering  until  the  major-surgeon 
told  him  the  private's  hospital  history,  and 
how  he  had  been  saved  from  death  by  the 
miraculous  intervention  of  the  departed 
and  flagrantly  notorious  "Shorty"  Blake. 

"Saunders  isn't  a  bad  soldier,"  said  the 
captain,  "but  he's  always  been  a  bit  too 
sentimental  and  broody.  And  if  he's  de- 
cided to  save  another  funeral  in  the  com- 
pany, you'd  better  ship  him  home  before 
he  changes  his  mind.  We  can't  feed  him 
on  another  batch  of  such  stimulating  news 
if  he  slumps  again.  I'll  look  after  his  dis- 
charge papers,  if  you  will  certify  him  for 
disability." 

It  was  three  weeks  later  when  Saun- 
ders, very  thin  and  somewhat  wobbly, 
waited  in  Nagasaki  for  the  next  transport 
homeward  bound  from  Manila.  He  met 
a  discharged  corporal  of  Riley's  Battery 
whom  he  had  seen  in  hospital,  and  the 


224  THE     JADE     TEAPOT 

gunner  was  eager  to  tell  a  highly  colored 
tale  whose  peroration  ran : 

"And  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  finish 
of  'Shorty'  Blake's  bombardment  of  Nag- 
asaki, and  it  must  have  been  a  wonder  all 
the  way.  They  took  him  off  to  the  trans- 
port in  a  sampan,  with  four  little  Jap 
policemen  sittin'  on  his  head  and  chest, 
and  him  kickin'  holes  in  the  cabin  roof. 
The  only  night  I  was  out  with  him  he  was 
playin'  a  game  of  turnin'  rickshaws  up- 
side down,  and  sittin'  on  the  axle,  with  the 
passenger  yellin'  murder  underneath  un- 
til Shorty  got  ready  to  move  on.  I  asked 
him  where  he  got  all  his  money  for  rum 
and  police  court  fines,  and  he  was  that 
twistified  with  booze,  he  says : 

"  'I  ripped  the  mortgage  off  the  old 
homestead  like  the  hero  in  a  play,  and 
took  my  commissions  like  J.  P.  Morgan 
reorganizin'  a  railroad.  If  you  don't  be- 
lieve it,  ask  the  Jap  whose  name  begins 
with  a  jade  teapot.'  " 


CAPTAIN   ARENDT'S     ' 
CHOICE 

HIS  wife  half  raised  herself  from 
the  couch  which  had  been  her 
abiding  place  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  "My  broken  flower,"  the 
captain  named  her  in  his  prayers  at  sea. 
The  One  to  whom  these  petitions  arose 
each  night  his  liner  throbbed  along  the 
Western  Ocean  track  had  granted  that 
the  heart  and  soul  of  the  wife  should  wax 
in  strength  and  sweetness  while  her  body 
lay  bound  in  chains  of  suffering.  Because 
to-night  there  was  worry  in  the  tired, 
brave  eyes  which  strove  so  well  to  mirror 
only  gladness  when  the  captain  was  at 
home,  he  was  much  disturbed,  the  more 
because  he  had  made  the  cloud  to  come. 

She  looked,  indeed,  like  a  "broken 
flower"  beside  the  towering  strength  of 
the  captain,  who  growled  through  his 
flaming  beard  when  he  would  speak  most 
softly,  who  moved  in  a  series  of  small 
225 


226     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

earthquakes  as  he  tried  to  pace  with  gent- 
lest tread,  while  they  thrashed  out  the 
momentous  problem. 

"To  think  of  the  new  home  is  wonder- 
ful," she  said  in  German,  for  this  they 
talked  when  together.  "Do  the  doctors 
truly  believe  I  shall  be  stronger  if  we  live 
at  New  York?  Is  there,  indeed,  hope  of 
health  again?  Ah,  but  it  is  risking  all  we 
have  saved  in  these  twenty-five  years, 
and " 

The  captain  no  longer  withheld  his 
voice  and  it  boomed  through  the  little 
house  with  a  hurricane  note,  though  he 
meant  it  to  be  only  reassuring : 

"But  the  gain  is  wonderful.  Such  a 
home  as  I  have  found  last  voyage — in  the 
country,  in  the  hills,  near  New  York. 
There  is  life  in  the  air,  and  it  will  make 
you  well  every  day.  And  better  than  that, 
what  is  everything  to  you  and  me,  I  shall 
be  with  you  almost  a  whole  week  every 
voyage — almost  a  week  in  a  month.  Now, 
when  I  must  sail  from  Liverpool,  I  am 
home  here  in  Antwerp  with  you  perhaps 
two  days  a  month,  perhaps  not  at  all  when 
storm  and  fog  delay  my  ship,  or  when  the 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT     S     CHOICE      227 

passage  is  bad  for  the  North  Sea  packet  in 
winter. 

"The  doctors  say  you  cannot  live  in  wet, 
gloomy  England,  and  here  it  is  not  much 
better.  You  will  get  well  where  we  are 
going.  We  can  be  together  as  much  as 
when  I  was  chief  officer  in  the  old  Deep- 
dale,  running  out  of  Antwerp.  The  deeds 
of  the  home  are  ready  to  sign.  I  pay  the 
ten  thousand  dollars  when  I  come  to  New 
York  this  voyage.  Then  you  come  out 
the  voyage  after  with  me,  for  the  com- 
pany makes  for  us  exception  to  the  rule 
that  a  wife  cannot  sail  on  her  husband's 
vessel." 

She  wistfully  smiled  as  if  led  by  a  beau- 
tiful dream,  thinking  in  her  heart  that  to 
be  sure  of  seeing  her  husband  so  often 
would  be  more  than  ever  she  dare  hope 
for.  Even  beckoning  health  must  yield 
first  place  to  such  a  gift  as  this,  but  not 
yet  satisfied  she  asked  with  tremulous  in- 
sistence : 

"But  the  bank  will  send  the  money  over 
without  risk,  and  it  is  all  we  have  in  the 
world,  dear  Max.  Do  you  remember  how 
the  nest-egg  was  put  away  so  long  ago, 


228    CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

when  we  hoped  for  children,  and  this  was 
to  be  the  beginning  of  their  fortune? 
Why  carry  the  money  on  your  ship?  Why 
take  it  with  you?" 

"Mein  Gott,  sweetheart  mine,  is  not  the 
old  Wasdale  safe  as  the  dry  land?  Is  not 
the  old  vessel  safer  than  the  banks,  which, 
as  they  say  in  New  York,  bust  higher  as  a 
kite  every  little  while?  Perhaps  they  give 
me  a  piece  of  paper  worth  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  Antwerp.  When  I  dock  in 
New  York,  perhaps  the  bank  has  gebust 
while  I  am  in  mid-ocean,  then  my  paper 
is  worth  nothing;  the  money  is  a  total  loss. 
In  the  Wasdale ',  in  my  room,  in  my  safe,  it 
is  mine,  and  I  have  never  lost  a  life,  much 
less  ten  thousand  good  dollars.  You  do 
not  worry  when  I  go  to  sea.  Am  I  not 
worth  as  much  as  our  stocking  full  of 
gold?  Answer  me  that,  my  Flora." 

He  did  not  know  through  how  many 
nights,  when  she  heard  the  winter  gales 
from  the  North  Sea  cry  over  the  roof,  a 
quivering  agony  of  fear  had  gripped  her 
wide-eyed  lest  the  Wasdale  might  have 
met  disaster.  But  experience  had  taught 
the  wife  that  no  argument  could  prevail 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT     S     CHOICE       229 

in  which  the  safety  and  strength  of  the 
ship  were  questioned.  Helpless  to  make 
reply,  she  accepted  defeat,  for  the  parting 
hour  was  far  gone  and  the  separation 
always  taxed  her  fitful  energy  near  to 
breaking. 

Always  as  he  raised  her  for  the  last  kiss, 
and  then  halted  reluctant  in  the  doorway, 
he  was  to  her  as  her  bright  youth  had  first 
seen  him,  a  red  viking,  born  to  master 
steel  and  steam  instead  of  the  galleys  of 
his  forebears.  This  night  he  smote  his 
chest  resoundingly  before  he  vanished 
into  the  hallway,  and  said  in  comforting 
farewell : 

"It  is  here,  in  the  old  brown  wallet,  next 
my  heart,  where  thou  dwellest,  my  Flora. 
Our  money  is  soon  on  the  old  Wasdale. 
God  keep  you !" 


The  biting  wind  of  early  March  fairly 
whipped  the  captain  up  the  side  of  the 
liner  lying,  with  shortened  cable,  mid- 
stream in  the  Mersey.  Clutching  a  stiff 
hat  with  one  hand,  baggy  trousers  flutter- 
ing, the  tails  of  his  frieze  ulster  tripping 


230       CAPTAIN      ARENDT    S     CHOICE 

him,  it  was  an  odd  and  ungainly  figure  of 
a  man  that  gained  the  deck  and  lumbered 
forward.  A  quartermaster  near  the  gang- 
way grinned  when  the  pot-hat  bounced 
from  the  bristling  red  head  and  carromed 
merrily  off  the  deck-house,  but  a  glance 
from  the  tail  of  Captain  Arendt's  eye 
froze  the  mahogany  countenance  of  the 
offender  into  instant  solemnity.  It  was 
a  hint  that  the  master  of  the  ship  was 
coming  into  his  own.  A  few  moments 
later  he  emerged  from  his  quarters  trans- 
formed. The  smartly  setting  uniform  of 
blue  and  the  flat  cap  jammed  down  hard 
were  so  evidently  what  he  belonged  in, 
that  the  shore-going  clothes  had  been  like 
a  clumsy  disguise.  A  small  boy  flattened 
himself  against  the  rail  and  saluted  with 
immense  dignity.  The  captain  pinched 
him  with  a  hairy  paw  and  chuckled : 

"Hello,  Moses,  or  vas  it  Josephs  I  calls 
you  last  woyage?  Holy  Schmokes!  If 
you  keep  my  room  no  better  dis  woyage, 
I  bites  your  head  off  close  to  your  neck. 
You  hear?  Scoo-o-t." 

"Moses-Josephs"  fled,  and  Captain 
Arendt  turned  on  his  heel  to  go  back  to 


CAPTAIN      ARENDT    S     CHOICE      231 

his  room,  remembering  with  a  start  that 
he  had  not  placed  the  precious  wallet  in 
his  safe,  but  had  transferred  it  to  his 
blouse.  He  clapped  his  hand  to  the  breast 
pocket,  hove  an  explosive  sigh  of  relief 
when  he  found  it  there,  and  was  instantly 
bent  on  banishing  all  chance  of  loss,  when 
the  chief  engineer  popped  up  from  below 
and  sought  him  out  in  breathless  haste 
with  these  tidings : 

"Sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir,  but  a 
drunken  dock-rat  of  a  Liverpool  fireman 
refuses  to  go  on  watch,  and  he's  re- 
inforced the  argument  with  a  slice-bar, 
and  laid  out  two  of  my  oilers  and  a  stoker, 
and  I  need  more  help  to  get  him  in  irons. 
He's  raising  hell,  and  no  mistake,  sir." 

The  captain  was  halfway  down  the  lad- 
der before  the  chief  had  done  speaking, 
and  despite  the  bigness  of  him,  made  his 
way  to  the  fire-room  like  a  squirrel.  The 
pallid,  sodden  mutineer,  backed  into  a  cor- 
ner, was  swinging  the  iron  bar  in  empty 
circles,  fighting  the  dancing  shadows  from 
an  open  furnace  door,  cursing  and  mut- 
tering. His  bleary  vision  had  no  time  to 
focus  on  the  big  man  with  the  red  face 


232       CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE 

and  snapping  blue  eye,  who  ducked  under 
the  weapon,  smashed  him  in  the  face  with 
one  hand,  squeezed  his  neck  in  the  other, 
and  flung  him  against  a  bunker  door  with 
such  force  that  he  lay  as  he  fell,  a  dirty, 
huddled  heap. 

"Vash  him  off  on  deck,  and  put  him  in 
the  hospital,"  said  the  captain.  "He's  a 
goot  man  ven  sober.  He  vas  vit  me  in 
anudder  ship  once.  I  knows  him.  Only 
his  ribs  is  cracked,  I  t'ink." 

When  the  five  thousand  ton  Wasdale 
began  to  crawl  down  the  Mersey,  a  hun- 
dred emigrants  clustered  along  the  after- 
rail,  and  shivered  as  they  chattered.  Two 
score  cabin  passengers  walked  the  saloon 
deck  amidships,  and  watched  the  great 
gray  docks  slip  past.  Twilight  brooded 
over  the  Irish  Sea  and  the  filmy  Welsh 
coast  when  dinner  called  them  to  make 
swift  acquaintance,  from  which  the  pon- 
derous good  humor  of  the  captain  was 
missing.  He  dined  alone  in  his  room,  and 
hastily,  because  he  preferred  to  keep  close 
to  the  bridge  in  these  jostling  waters.  Yet 
the  night  had  become  almost  windless,  and 
so  clear  that  the  twin  lanterns  of  the  light- 


CAPTAIN      ARENDT    S     CHOICE       233 

ship  off  Carnarvon  Bay  gleamed  like 
jewels  on  a  canopy  of  black  velvet.  Cap- 
tain Arendt  leaned  on  the  rail  at  the  end 
of  the  bridge,  and  sniffed  the  sparkling 
air  as  the  evening  wore  late. 

"It  looks  goot,"  he  muttered;  "but  I 
schmell  fog.  Yes,  I  schmell  fog,  and  the 
rail  is  schticky,  and  the  paint  is  schticky, 
and  dere  will  be  fog  before  morning." 

He  rubbed  a  massive  shoulder  and 
turned  to  the  chief  officer: 

"And  my  rheumatism  tells  me  dere  vill 
be  wet  fog.  I  am  coldt,  and  vill  change 
my  coat.  I  am  also  an  old  fool;  but  tell 
the  engine-room  to  stand  by  for  fog,  not 
before  morning,  but  before  midnight,  by 
Chiminy !  I  schmelled  it  strong  dot  time, 
and  I  never  schmelled  him  wrong." 

"Moses-Josephs"  was  caught  in  the  act 
of  brushing  and  laying  away  the  captain's 
shore  togs  with  absorbed  attention  to  de- 
tail. 

"Choke  dot  vistlin'  noise  off,  and  run 
avay,"  was  the  order  that  sent  the  boy 
scurrying  toward  the  door.  "Vait,  I  tells 
you,"  halted  him  as  if  he  had  fetched  up 
against  a  wall.  "How  is  your  mudder, 


234       CAPTAIN      ARENDT     S     CHOICE 

boy?  She  was  pretty  sick  last  voyage,  you 
tells  me.  Better?  Dot  is  fine.  When  we 
come  again  to  Liverpool,  if  you  are  a  goot 
boy,  you  can  lay  off  one  trip  mit  wages, 
and  help  her  get  well.  Now  scoo-o-t.  I 
don't  want  you  around.  You  is  a  tamned 
nuisance." 

"Moses-Josephs"  ducked  in  thanks, 
and  the  captain  locked  the  door  behind 
him,  and  sat  at  his  desk  with  the  "old 
brown  wallet"  before  him.  "I  vill  count 
him  once,"  he  confided  to  the  barometer, 
"for  fear  he  may  have  ewaporated  while 
I  forgot  him." 

His  glance  fell  next  on  the  picture  of 
his  wife,  framed  in  silver  against  the  wall. 
As  he  slowly  counted  the  rustling  notes, 
he  talked  aloud  to  her  in  German,  as  he 
had  done  many  times  in  sheer  loneliness 
and  longing : 

"Four  hundred  pounds — the  first  four 
hundred  pounds  came  hard,  my  Flora, 
didn't  it?  Ten  years  we  saved  it  while  I 
was  fourth  and  third  officer  in  the  com- 
pany. One  thousand  pounds — we  had  & 
grand  celebration  when  that  was  landed 
high  and  dry,  eh  ?  Fifteen  hundred — it  is 


CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE     235 

a  grand  investment  this.  Two  thousand 
pounds — it  is  a  fine  fortune,  but  we  would 
be  rich  with  nothing." 

The  square-hewn  face  softened  and  the 
flinty  blue  eye  was  misty  as  the  captain 
bundled  the  notes  into  the  wallet  and 
stooped  to  open  the  little  safe  beneath  the 
desk.  The  combination,  always  puzzling 
for  him,  was  unusually  tricky,  and  as  he 
wrestled  with  it  the  speaking  tube  whis- 
tled near  his  ear. 

"There's  thick  fog  ahead,  sir.  We'll 
be  into  it  before  long,"  rumbled  the  voice 
of  the  chief  officer  from  the  bridge. 

The  captain  hastily  thrust  the  wallet 
into  the  top  drawer  of  his  desk,  wriggled 
into  a  heavy  reefer,  and  went  on  the 
bridge.  A  dense  belt  of  darkness  hung 
low  ahead  on  the  water  and  curtained  the 
stars.  Presently  this  barrier  strangely 
streaking  the  clear  sky  was  changed  to 
dirty,  gray  clouds,  then  into  blinking  mist. 
Thus  the  fog  shut  down  like  wool. 

The  lamenting  whistle  of  the  Wasdale 
at  once  began  to  protest  against  this  game 
of  hide-and-seek.  The  bridge  indicator 
signaled  "half  speed,"  and  the  vessel  stole 


236     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

ahead  as  if  in  nervous  dread,  like  a  blind 
horse  in  a  crowded  thoroughfare. 

Before  long  she  began  to  feel  her  way 
with  frequent  pauses,  while  those  on 
watch,  from  bridge  to  crow's  nest,  lis- 
tened, listened.  Their  eyes  were  useless; 
their  ears  dreaded  lest  they  hear  too  loud 
reply  to  the  siren  that  shouted  over  and 
over  again  to  this  world  of  gray  nothing- 
ness that  the  Wasdale  was  abroad.  The 
ship  crept  ahead,  slowed  to  listen,  crept 
ahead  again,  but  the  responses  to  her  out- 
cries so  soon  became  softened  or  silent  that 
they  held  no  menace. 

The  hour  was  near  midnight.  In  their 
staterooms,  the  cabin  passengers  awoke  to 
cast  sleepy  abuse  at  the  fog-horn,  and  turn 
over  again  to  slumber,  warm  and  dry,  be- 
lieving themselves  as  secure  as  in  their 
own  homes.  On  the  bridge  an  uncouth, 
dripping  specter  in  oil-skins  suddenly 
threw  back  his  head  and  spun  round  to 
face  the  starboard  quarter  as  if  he  had 
felt  the  sting  of  a  bullet. 

A  moment's  waiting,  the  fog-horn  of 
the  Wasdale  moaned  again,  and  from  out 
in  the  baffling  pallor  came  the  ghost  of  a 


CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE     237 

reply,  nearer  than  when  last  heard,  louder 
than  when  its  previous  warning  had  star- 
tled the  captain. 

The  other  steamer,  groping  to  nose  a 
clear  path  through  the  hazards  of  these 
waters,  steadily  became  more  clamorous. 

The  Wasdale  called  with  loud,  implor- 
ing blasts  as  if  asking  the  stranger  to 
speak  more  distinctly.  The  chief  officer 
said  as  he  glanced  at  the  helm  indicator: 

"She's  barely  got  steerage  way  now, 
sir." 

"Let  her  go  as  she  is  for  a  liddle  bit,"  re- 
plied the  captain.  "Dot  feller  is  going  up 
channel,  I  t'ink.  But  vat  he  do  heading 
our  way  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry?"  For 
a  deadened  hoot  told  that  the  unknown 
was  drawing  close  aboard.  The  straining 
eyes  on  the  Wasdale' 's  bridge  could  see  not 
more  than  two  ship-lengths  into  the  mid- 
night fog. 

"It  is  like  dot  game  they  play  in  the 
steerage,"  was  the  captain's  whispered 
comment.  "Two  fellers  is  blindfold,  and 
the  udder  sundowners  make  'em  chase  one 
anudder  round  the  deck." 

The   warnings  from  beyond  had   as- 


138     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

sumed  definite  direction,  as  if  the  stranger 
were  guided  by  a  fell  instinct  beyond  the 
ken  of  her  own  officers.  The  Wasdale's 
siren  ripped  the  night  with  quavering  ex- 
hortation to  hold  hard  and  beware. 

Suddenly  the  captain  gripped  the 
bridge  rail  and  lifted  himself  on  his  toes 
with  a  smothered  "Gott!"  that  was 
wrenched  from  the  depths  of  his  broad 
chest.  Two  lights  blinked,  red  and  green, 
almost  abeam,  and  between  them  a  tow- 
ering mass  dead  black  against  the  shroud- 
ing night,  while  amazed  voices  were  heard 
screaming  a  flurry  of  orders  from  the  fog, 
even  before  the  roar  of  both  whistles 
sounded  a  belated  duet. 

Captain  Arendt  was  at  his  indicator 
with  a  leap  and  was  like  to  pull  the  handle 
from  its  sockets  as  he  signaled  to  reverse 
his  engines,  while  his  chief  officer  was 
shouting  down  the  tube  the  same  momen- 
tous summons.  The  third  officer  was 
softly  treading  a  little  jig-step,  in  a  frenzy 
of  impatience  to  have  the  thing  done  with- 
out more  suspense.  The  Wasdale  groaned 
and  trembled  to  the  furious  reaction  of 
her  screw,  lost  headway,  hung  helpless, 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE       239 

and  showed  a  fair  broadside  to  the  assault 
of  the  other  ship,  which,  wholly  at  fault, 
had  begun  to  swing  in  fatal  blundering,  as 
if  trying  to  pass  under  the  Wasdale's 
stern. 

The  blow  came,  therefore,  a  little  abaft 
the  bridge.  Succeeding  a  prodigious 
crash  and  rending  of  plates  came  a  mo- 
ment of  impressive  stillness,  as  the  Was- 
dale  tried  to  right  herself  from  the  shock, 
and  then  a  foolish  clatter  of  falling  china 
and  glass. 

"He's  waltzed  clean  through  our  pan- 
try," said  the  third  officer  to  himself. 

Captain  Arendt  had  only  to  rise  from 
the  planks  where  he  had  been  flung,  to 
command  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  disaster. 
He  looked  down  on  the  crumpled  bows  of 
the  other  ship,  driven  twenty  feet  into  his 
own  saloon-deck,  and  making  a  trumpet 
of  his  hands,  shouted  across  to  the  other 
bridge,  on  which  he  could  see  figures  mov- 
ing like  agitated  black  smudges : 

"You  is  cut  us  half  in  two.  Keep  going 
ahead.  Don't  back  out,  vatever  you  do. 
Keep  the  hole  plugged  until  I  gets  my 
peoples  off." 


240       CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE 

The  other  ship  seemed  to  hang  as  if 
wedged  in  the  gap  she  had  made,  but  be- 
fore the  officers  of  the  Wasdale  could 
reach  the  saloon  deck  the  hideous,  rending 
noise  was  renewed.  The  black  bows  of 
the  stranger  wrenched  themselves  loose, 
slid  clear,  and  with  a  sobbing  roar  the  sea 
rushed  in  as  water  falls  over  a  dam.  The 
withdrawn  mass  ground  alongside,  tear- 
ing woodwork  into  kindling,  and  then  be- 
gan to  melt  softly  into  the  fog.  Captain 
Arendt  clambered  back  to  his  bridge, 
shouting  as  he  ran : 

"Ship  ahoy,  you!  You  have  sunk  us. 
Stand  by  to  safe  life.  Get  out  mit  your 
boats.  Blow  your  vistle.  You  pig  swine 
of  a !" 

Without  reply  the  slayer  faded  like  a 
phantom  and  was  gone.  From  far  down 
in  the  W Male's  hold  came  a  sound  which 
made  her  captain  thrill  to  feel  that  disci- 
pline had  stood  its  first  grim  test.  Colli- 
sion doors  in  bulkheads  were  grinding 
shut  with  the  mutter  of  far-off  thunder. 

The  electric  lights  on  deck  and  in  the 
saloons  had  been  snuffed  out.  The  ship 
was  in  darkness  almost  everywhere.  From 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE       241 

staterooms  came  screams  of  women  and 
the  wails  of  little  children.  The  few 
stewards  on  watch  were  first  to  join  the 
seamen  on  deck  and  those  who  had  been 
flung  from  their  bunks  forward  by  the 
shock  of  collision.  Into  the  ruck  began  to 
pour  firemen  and  coal-passers  from  below, 
already  flooded  out  of  their  compart- 
ments. It  was  perhaps  three  minutes  be- 
fore a  welter  of  men  began  to  flow  in 
eddies  toward  the  boats. 

Meantime  a  wonderful  thing  was  being 
done.  The  compelling  personality  of  one 
man  rose  dominant  as  if  he  had  been  given 
the  strength  of  ten.  Panic  was  on  tiptoe, 
ready  to  make  an  inferno  of  these  decks, 
when  it  was  routed  because  a  hundred  and 
forty  men  in  the  Wasdale  had  learned  by 
the  hard  drill  of  experience  that  what  this 
man  said  must  be  done  on  the  instant. 
Captain  Arendt  called  for  light,  and  four 
sailors  came  running  with  the  globe  lamps 
snatched  from  the  steerage  and  the  wheel- 
house.  He  swung  one  of  these  over  the 
hole  in  the  ship's  side,  and  there  was  no 
need  to  wait  for  the  reports  of  those  sent 
below  to  make  examination.  Her  bulk- 


242       CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE 

heads  could  not  save  her,  and  she  was  set- 
tling fast. 

"The  old  Wasdale  vas  not  builded  for 
this,"  he  said  to  the  chief  officer.  "She  will 
sink  in  one  half  hour — no  longer.  We 
must  safe  life.  Get  the  men  to  their  sta- 
tions at  the  boats,  joost  like  boat-drill  we 
have  every  woyage.  If  they  don't  go, 
shoot  'em.  But  they  vill  go.  I  knows. 
Send  an  officer  in  charge  of  some  goot 
men  to  handle  the  steerage." 

The  captain  passed  his  own  cabin  door 
three  times  in  the  next  handful  of  seconds. 
It  was  only  a  step,  only  an  instant 
snatched  from  this  priceless  flight  of  time, 
to  save  the  wallet  in  the  top  drawer  of  the 
desk.  Each  time  he  passed  the  door  the 
desire  to  enter  pulled  him  as  if  strong 
hands  clutched  his  shoulders,  but  he  went 
on. 

Once  he  hesitated,  and  just  then  a 
grimy  figure  rushed  past  him  headlong, 
and  flung  itself  at  the  falls  of  the  nearest 
boat,  tearing  at  the  canvas  cover  with  teeth 
and  nails,  moaning  as  if  hurt.  At  his 
heels  came  three  others  from  below  decks, 
knocking  down  all  who  blocked  their 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE       243 

escape.  The  captain  tore  their  leader 
from  the  boat,  and,  like  a  red  bear,  seized 
him  around  the  waist  and  tossed  him  over- 
board like  a  bundle  of  rags.  Those  near 
heard  the  choking  yell  of  a  drowning  man. 

The  captain  turned,  and  for  the  only 
time  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  great  voice : 

"Men,  the  ship  is  in  a  sinking  condition. 
The  only  coward  on  board  vas  gone.  To 
your  stations.  We  must  all  safe  life." 

A  group  of  stokers  huddled  near  the 
rail  dropped  the  bundles  of  clothing  they 
had  brought  on  deck,  and  one  of  them, 
whose  head  was  bound  in  rags,  cried  back : 

"We're  wid  ye.  You  near  kilt  me  to- 
day, you  big  Dutch ,  but  by 

— ,  you're  a  man.  All  right,  sorr;  we'll 
go  after  thim  dummies  in  th'  steerage." 

It  is  consistent  with  few  narratives  of 
disaster  at  sea,  but  there  was  no  more 
shouting  among  the  crew  of  the  Wasdale. 
They  bent  fiercely  to  their  business,  with 
whispers  and  muttered  directions.  It  was 
not  the  nearness  of  death  that  stifled  their 
outcries  so  much  as  the  imminent  neigh- 
borhood of  a  man  with  a  stout  heart  and 
a  cool  head,  who  had  hammered  iron-fisted 


244       CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE 

obedience  into  his  crews  through  a  stormy 
lifetime  at  sea. 

The  Wasdale  had  cleared  with  three 
hundred  men,  women,  and  children  on 
board.  There  were  boats  to  hold  twice 
that  number.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
time  in  which  to  stow  these  precious  car- 
goes, a  race  with  the  sea  which  each  mo- 
ment sucked  the  Wasdale  lower,  as  her 
decks  sloped  with  a  sickening  list  to  star- 
board. A  minute  bungled  meant  many 
lives  lost. 

The  captain  seemed  rather  to  drift  than 
rush  from  one  part  of  the  decks  to  an- 
other. Going  down  the  saloon  stairway, 
he  found  a  line  of  stewards  passing  pas- 
sengers up  as  if  they  were  so  much  bag- 
gage. The  water  was  in  the  staterooms 
and  washing  along  the  alleys.  Weeping 
women,  clad  only  in  their  night-clothes, 
were  shoved  into  cork  jackets,  bundled 
above,  handed  to  the  waiting  seamen,  and 
laid  shivering  in  the  boats  without  touch- 
ing foot  to  deck.  After  ransacking  the 
rooms  to  search  out  all  the  cabin  people, 
the  captain  returned  on  deck  to  find  con- 
fusion and  some  outcry  where  he  had  left 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT     S     CHOICE       245 

an  orderly  flight  to  the  boats.  A  white- 
faced  passenger  was  on  his  knees,  arms 
raised  on  high,  his  mouth  contorted  in 
trembling  and  husky  appeal: 

"We  are  doomed,  and  prayer  alone  can 
save.  The  ship  is  going  down,  the  ship  is 
going  down,  and  we  must  be  lost  forever 
unless  we  gather  in  prayer.  Come  round 
me,  and  let  us  pray  together.  Oh,  make  a 
last  appeal  to  your  Maker  to  forgive  us, 
before  we  go  to  meet  Him  with  sin-stained 
souls.  Man  can  do  nothing,  God  can  do 
all.  Oh,  save  us,  save  our  lives,  we  be- 
seech Thee!" 

A  dozen  half -naked  passengers  wa- 
vered, broke  away  from  control,  and  fell 
around  him,  sobbing  or  trying  to  join  in 
broken  prayer.  The  voice  of  the  suppli- 
ant rose  to  a  shriek,  and  some  of  the  crew 
balked,  as  if  panic  were  stealing  among 
them.  Captain  Arendt  crashed  through 
the  pitiful  circle  and  thundered : 

"Choke  dot  idiot  performance.  Let  the 
vimmen  do  the  prayin'.  Tumble  into  dot 
boat,  you.  You  vill  make  the  devil  to  pay 
here,  I  teUs  you.  Be  still!" 

Fear  had  made  the  wretch  deaf  to  rea- 


246     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

son.  He  subsided  only  to  stagger  to  an- 
other corner  of  the  deck,  where  his  prayers 
again  drew  after  him  many  who  were  con- 
vinced that  death  was  inevitable. 

"Jam  him  into  the  boat,  and  set  on 
him,"  was  the  captain's  order.  "Break 
him  in  two  pieces  mit  an  oar  if  he  makes 
one  more  yell." 

Twenty  minutes  after  the  collision,  the 
saloon  deck  of  the  Wasdale  was  only  a  few 
feet  from  the  sea.  The  cheering  creak  of 
the  falls  as  they  ripped  through  the 
sheaves  was  sounding  from  one  end  of  the 
deck  to  the  other,  as  the  boats  descended 
while  the  captain  counted  them  and  held 
his  breath,  lest  some  unlooked-for  lurch 
of  the  helpless  ship  should  crush  them 
against  her  sides  like  so  many  egg-shells. 
Were  all  hands  out?  He  did  not  know, 
but  it  was  time  to  leave.  Some  one  jogged 
his  elbow,  and  he  turned  to  see  little 
"Moses- Josephs,"  who  said  with  trem- 
bling lip : 

"I'm  all  ready  to  go  when  you  are,  sir. 
Anything  more  I  can  do?  I  took  care  of 
the  stewardess  and  her  cat,  sir." 

"Joost  run  to  my  room  quick,  and  get 


CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE     247 

the  pocket-book  in  the  top —  No,  stay 
here  mit  me.  Yump  into  Number  T'ree 
boat  this  minute,  you  liddle  nuisance." 

"I  cannot  let  him  go,"  groaned  the  cap- 
tain, "and  risk  the  child  be  drownded. 
Vat  his  sick  mudder  say  to  me  if  he  don't 
come  back?" 

Surely  there  was  time  for  the  captain 
to  rush  up  to  his  room,  only  half  the  length 
of  the  deck,  and  rescue  the  savings  of  his 
long  life  at  sea.  The  wistful,  troubled 
face  of  the  wife  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  the 
hope  of  home  and  health,  fairly  drove  him 
to  run  forward  with  head  down.  He 
looked  overside  as  he  ran,  and  the  gray 
sea  was  lipping  so  close  that  he  could  have 
touched  it  from  the  deck  below.  The 
planks  under  his  feet  rolled  once  with 
a  weary,  sluggish  heave.  He  had  once 
been  in  a  sailing  vessel  which  foundered 
in  such  a  smooth  sea  as  this,  and  he  re- 
called that  just  before  she  plunged  un- 
der there  had  been  a  series  of  these  long 
labored  rolls  as  if  the  ship  were  gasping 
for  breath  before  the  sea  should  wholly 
smother  her. 

He  had  almost  gained  the  ladder  to  the 


248     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

bridge  when  he  saw  a  moving  blotch  of 
white  almost  hidden  behind  the  bow  of  a 
disabled  boat.  Swerving,  he  found  a 
woman,  a  little  girl,  and  a  man,  plainly 
their  husband  and  father.  The  man  was 
leaning  over  the  rail,  trying  to  call  to  the 
nearest  boat,  which  was  warily  pushing 
away  from  the  sinking  ship.  Spasms  of 
fear  so  clutched  his  throat  that  his  cries 
were  only  whispers,  as  one  shrieks  without 
voice  amid  nightmare  perils.  The  woman 
clung  to  his  coat,  the  little  girl  to  her 
mother's  garment.  Evidently  they  had 
been  overlooked  because  of  the  hiding 
place  to  which  the  man  had  blindly  led 
them.  As  the  captain  reached  the  rail, 
the  man  tore  himself  loose  from  his  wife 
and  child  with  a  great  cry,  and  plunged 
headlong  overside,  not  into  the  sea,  but 
into  the  boat,  which,  at  great  risk,  had 
been  pulled  close  to  save  the  group.  With 
a  crash,  he  smote  the  metal  gunwale  and 
fell  inboard. 

"Did  you  caught  that  dirty  loafer?" 
shouted  the  captain. 

The  voice  of  the  fourth  officer  in  charge 
of  the  boat  bellowed: 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE       249 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  think  he's  dead  as  a 
mackerel.  He  landed  square  on  his  head; 
and  one  of  the  men  who's  picking  him  up 
says  his  neck  is  broken.  Shall  we  stand 
by?" 

"Holy  Schmokes,  yes.  Sving  that  lan- 
tern so  you  can  see  to  caught  the  voman 
first." 

It  was  not  an  easy  task.  Another  un- 
easy roll  of  the  deck  told  him  that  the 
Wasdale  was  in  the  death  throes.  The 
water  lapped  through  the  scuppers  as  she 
lurched  back  and  down  to  port.  There 
were  only  a  few  steps  to  the  bridge,  the 
room,  and  the  old  brown  wallet.  He 
worked  with  furious  haste.  The  mother 
had  sunk  to  the  deck,  fainting  and  inert. 
She  had  seen  her  husband  desert  her  on  a 
sinking  ship;  she  had  heard  of  his  death 
below.  Her  arms  had  locked  around  the 
waist  of  the  child,  hardly  more  than  a 
baby,  whose  wisp  of  a  night-dress  was 
tattered  about  its  neck.  The  captain 
tugged  at  the  mother's  hands  to  free  the 
child,  for  he  dare  not  toss  them  over  thus 
embraced. 

Each  second  imperiled  the  lives  of  the 


250       CAPTAIN     ARENDT     S     CHOICE 

three,  and  also  the  fate  of  the  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  that  "was  safer  in  the  old 
Wasdale  than  in  the  bank  ashore."  At 
length  the  captain  wrapped  the  child  in 
his  reefer,  and  tossed  her  into  the  waiting 
boat  with  a  warning  shout.  The  mother 
was  a  wrenching  weight  to  swing  clear, 
but  when  she  had  followed,  a  cheer  from 
the  boat  told  him  that  she  had  been  safely 
caught. 

He  wiped  the  sweat  and  mist  from  his 
purpling  face,  and  muttered: 

"I  must  safe  life;  I  must  safe  life,  my 
Flora,  as  long  as  she  floats." 

The  Wasdale  still  floated,  as  if  the  old 
ship  were  prolonging  the  struggle  in  or- 
der that  the  master  who  loved  her  might 
yet  save  the  fortune  that  meant  so  much 
to  him.  He  picked  up  a  life-preserver 
thrown  aside  on  deck,  slipped  into  it,  and 
looked  around  him,  now  desperately  bent 
on  reaching  the  bridge,  even  though  the 
ship  should  sink  beneath  him.  Surely 
none  else  than  he  was  left  on  board. 

A  blob  of  light  flickered  far  aft  on  deck 
— a  globe  lamp  such  as  the  sailors  had  been 
working  with.  He  saw  it,  and  caught 


CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE       251 

hold  of  an  awning  stanchion  to  steady 
himself.  It  must  be  only  a  sailor  dutifully 
standing  by,  before  getting  away  in  the 
last  boat.  Surely  he  could  take  care  of 
himself.  Was  it  not  enough  that  he,  the 
captain,  should  have  done  all  that  could 
be  expected  of  mortal  man,  more  than  al- 
most any  other  commander  had  ever  done, 
to  save  his  passengers  and  crew,  hundreds 
of  them,  from  a  ship  run  down  and  sunk 
in  half  an  hour?  Was  he  not  justified,  in 
sight  of  God  and  man,  in  saving  his  for- 
tune, not  for  himself,  but  for  the  helpless 
wife  at  home?  It  was  all  they  had,  on  it 
was  builded  all  they  hoped  for.  He 
swayed  in  his  tracks,  as  the  warring  mo- 
tives pulled  him  this  way  and  that. 

"Oh,  my  wife,"  he  gasped.  "I  must  be 
the  last  man  to  leave  the  ship,  or  I  must  go 
down  mit  her.  I  cannot,  no,  by  Gott,  I 
cannot  go  to  my  room." 

He  fled  aft  as  if  the  devil  had  tried  to 
snare  his  soul.  The  sea  caught  at  his  heels 
as  he  ran,  even  on  deck.  Aft  of  the  steer- 
age deck-house,  the  lamp  he  had  glimpsed 
was  dancing  in  crazy  circles,  where  two 
firemen  were  struggling  with  a  heap 


2J2       CAPTAIN     ARENDT    S     CHOICE 

of  Hungarian  emigrants,  who  violently 
refused  to  help  themselves.  One  of 
the  would-be  rescuers,  whose  head  was 
bound  in  rags,  spoke  as  the  captain  drew 
near: 

"Don't  hit  me  agin,  son*.  Me  ribs  is 
stove  in,  an*  I  can't  be  handlin'  these 
loony  Dagoes  in  proper  style.  We 
had  'em  all  in  the  boat,  sorr,  but  they 
swar-r-med  back  unbeknownst  after  their 
filthy  bundles  of  duffle." 

The  emigrants  were,  indeed,  difficult  to 
pry  loose  from  their  huge  packages  of 
clothing,  and  as  the  disabled  fireman  was 
of  little  use  in  the  pitched  battle  raging, 
his  comrade  was  unable  to  wrest  himself 
free  of  the  frenzied  men  whom  he  was 
trying  to  save.  The  great  strength  and 
weight  of  the  captain  piled  into  the  tan- 
gled mass  like  a  battering  ram,  and  one 
by  one  the  reinforced  firemen  pitched  the 
foreigners  overboard  to  be  fished  out  by 
the  boat  that  lingered  perilously  under 
the  counter. 

"Yump  yourselves!"  yelled  the  captain; 
and  as  they  dove,  the  stern  of  the  Wasdale 
reared  and  seemed  to  be  climbing  sky- 


CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE     253 

ward.  Her  commander  cast  one  hungry 
glance  toward  the  bridge,  and  saw  her 
bows  vanish  in  a  smother  of  foam.  As  he 
jumped,  he  felt  a  shudder,  as  if  every 
plate  was  drawing  from  its  rivets.  When 
his  head  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  roller,  a 
boat-hook  was  twisted  into  his  shirt,  and 
he  was  yanked  inboard  by  half  a  dozen 
hands,  while  the  seamen  bent  to  the  sweeps 
for  life  or  death  as  they  strove  to  pull  be- 
yond reach  of  the  coming  suction. 

The  boat  was  not  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  astern  when  the  Wasdale  pitched 
again,  rolled  once,  and  vanished  with  a 
thunderous  farewell  as  her  decks  blew  up 
in  clouds  of  hissing  steam. 

As  if  the  killing  fog  had  waited  for  this 
sacrifice,  it  began  to  lift  until  the  scattered 
lights  in  the  eight  boats  began  to  flock  to- 
gether and  the  flotilla  lay  waiting  for 
daybreak.  The  captain  knew  not  whether 
any  souls  had  been  left  on  board,  and  mis- 
erably impatient  he  longed  for  light  to 
count  them. 

"It  is  a  bad  night's  vork,"  he  said  to  the 
bos'n  at  the  tiller.  "I  haf  lost  my  ship, 
and  I  may  never  get  anudder.  I  haf  lost 


254       CAPTAIN     ARENDT     S     CHOICE 

all  my  money,  and  I  vill  not  get  him  again, 
for  I  am  too  old.  But  I  hope  I  haf  saf  ed 
all  my  peoples,  and  if  dot  is  so,  I  tank 
Gott." 

Before  day  came  their  rockets  were  an- 
swered, and  a  big  steamer  loafed  slug- 
gishly toward  the  clustered  life-boats. 
When  she  hove  to,  it  was  apparent  that 
she  had  been  in  collision.  Her  bows  were 
jumbled  back  to  her  fore  bulkhead,  and 
it  seemed  a  miracle  that  she  had  been  kept 
afloat. 

"It  is  the  svine  vat  runned  into  us,"  said 
the  captain,  "and  den  runned  avay.  I  vish 
a  few  vords  mit  her  skipper." 

When  the  crew  of  the  Wasdale,  scram- 
bling up  the  Jacob's  ladders,  had  hoisted 
the  bruised  and  benumbed  passengers 
aboard,  the  crippled  vessel  limped  on  her 
course  toward  Liverpool.  She  was  an 
Italian  tramp,  inbound  from  South 
American  ports,  and  her  captain  had  a 
taste  of  regions  even  more  torrid  when 
interviewed  on  his  bridge  by  the  late  com- 
mander of  the  Wasdale,  who  returned 
aft  to  find  his  people  vainly  trying  to  find 
shelter  from  the  cold. 


CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE     255 

"Why  aren't  dose  poor  miserable  vim- 
men  in  the  cabins?"  he  asked. 

"The  cabins  are  all  locked,  sir,"  replied 
one  of  the  men,  "and  the  Dago  cook  won't 
let  us  in  the  galley  to  get  something  to 
eat." 

"Break  open  the  cabin  doors,  and  pitch 
the  Eyetalian  swab  out  on  his  dirty  head, 
and  cook  whatef  er  you  find  in  this  schow," 
was  the  order,  and  these  things  were  done 
on  the  instant.  Coffee  and  hash  were 
made  by  the  Wasdale's  cooks,  and  passed 
by  the  Wasdale's  stewards,  and  the  in- 
vaded cabins  ransacked  for  whatever 
blankets  and  clothing  might  serve  to 
warm  the  pitiable  castaways. 

A  little  later  the  crew  of  the  Wasdcde 
was  mustered  for  roll  call.  Each  depart- 
ment rallied  to  its  chief.  As  down  the 
lines  of  shivering  men  the  "Here,  sir,"  ran 
without  a  gap,  the  captain  found  himself 
choking  back  the  tears,  for  at  the  same 
time  the  purser  made  tally  of  the  cabin 
and  steerage  passengers,  and  found  all 
present,  even  to  the  silent  figure  under  a 
tarpaulin  of  the  man  who  had  slain  him- 
self. 


256     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

The  crew  cheered,  and  the  chief  engi- 
neer stepped  forward  and  began: 

"Beg  pardon,  captain,  but  when  we  re- 
member the  Elbe  and  the  Bourgogne,  we 
have  a  right  to  think " 

The  captain  silenced  him  with  a  gesture 
and  left  them.  Now,  first  he  could  think 
of  his  own  crushing  disaster,  which,  in  his 
thoughts,  eclipsed  the  great  deliverance  he 
had  wrought  by  grace  of  his  own  courage 
and  loyalty.  He  did  not  see  that  he  had 
done  anything  to  merit  praise,  rather  was 
his  plight  almost  worse  than  if  he  had 
gone  down  with  the  Wasdale.  Brooding 
and  unnerved,  he  did  not  rouse  himself 
until  the  battered  tramp  was  in  the  Mer- 
sey, and  then  he  sent  a  tug  ashore  with 
tidings  for  his  company,  bidding  them 
meet  and  succor  his  helpless  people. 

The  melancholy  procession  had  filed 
ashore  before  he  gripped  his  resolution, 
and,  coatless  and  ragged,  sought  his  su- 
perintendent to  make  report  of  what  had 
happened.  This  interview  was  brief,  for 
the  formal  investigation  must  wait  the 
captain's  written  word.  The  superintend- 
ent was  also  a  man  among  men,  and  he 


CAPTAIN      ARENDT     S      CHOICE       257 

was  silent  for  a  little  time,  looking  at  the 
bowed  figure  of  the  captain,  who  sat  with 
his  tousled  red  head  in  his  hands,  thinking 
now  of  the  telegram  he  must  send  to  Ant- 
werp. A  few  broken  words  had  told  the 
superintendent  of  the  wife  and  the  old 
brown  wallet. 

Finally  the  captain  wrote  this  message: 

I  have  lost  my  ship  and  all  our  money, 
but  saved  every  soul  on  board. 

He  handed  this  to  the  superintendent, 
whispered,  "Please  send  it  to  her,"  and 
started  to  go  out  of  the  office,  he  scarcely 
knew  whither.  The  superintendent  halted 
him,  grasping  the  bruised  right  hand  that 
hung  all  nerveless. 

"You  have  much  to  live  for,  Captain 
Arendt,  and  more  to  be  proud  of.  Don't 
think  for  one  moment  that  the  company 
will  forget  a  man  who  can  do  such  a 
night's  work  as  you  have  put  to  your 
credit.  You  take  my  unofficial  word  for 
it,  this  is  a  cloud  with  a  silver  lining." 

Shortly  before  Captain  Arendt  was 
ready  to  take  train  that  night  for  the  Har- 


258     CAPTAIN    ARENDT'S    CHOICE 

wich  boat  to  Antwerp,  a  telegram  was 
handed  him.  He  read  it  with  a  smile  such 
as  made  his  haggard  face  seem  beautiful : 

What  care  I,  if  ihou  hast  saved  thine 
honor  and  thyself?    Come  to  me. 

Flora. 


SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 
"DAY  OFF" 

ASHLEY  BRAINARD  left  the 
life-saving  station  and  lounged 
across  the  wide  beach  on  which 
the  cadenced  breakers  tumbled  green  and 
white.  Beyond  the  gentle  surf  the  Gulf 
Stream  dyed  the  sleeping  sea  deep  tur- 
quoise. The  curving  coast  line  wavered 
in  the  glare  of  sunlight  fierce  as  midsum- 
mer, and  the  little  landward  breeze  was 
warm  and  fragrant.  Barefooted,  clad  in 
a  sleeveless  jersey  and  a  frayed  pair  of 
white  ducks,  Brainard  dug  his  toes  in  the 
wet  sand  and  stood  scowling  at  an  auto- 
mobile that  moved  swiftly  up  the  beach. 
He  seemed  to  resent  its  jarring  intrusion 
upon  the  brooding  peace  of  the  tropical 
landscape  as  if  a  personal  grudge  were 
involved.  In  truth  he  was  angry  with 
himself  that  he  could  not  smother  the  sud- 
den discontent  born  of  the  sight  of  this 
259 


260          SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 

dnimming,  flamboyant  chariot  which  had 
swooped  down  from  the  big  hotel  five 
miles  to  the  northward.  When  the  car 
became  a  swerving  speck  and  then  van- 
ished beyond  a  feathery  clump  of  cabbage 
palms,  the  youth  turned  back  to  the  sta- 
tion muttering: 

"Now  that  Tarpon  Inlet  has  closed  up, 
I  suppose  we'll  be  pestered  to  death  with 
these  silly  tourists.  But,  whew !  it  was  like 
getting  letters  from  home  to  see  my  kind 
of  people  again.  I'd  forgotten  what  they 
looked  like." 

The  lusty  surfman  rubbed  his  tousled 
head  as  was  his  habit  when  restless  or  per- 
plexed, and  focused  his  irritation  on  the 
red-roofed  cottage  in  which  hitherto  he 
had  found  contentment. 

"This  life-saving  business  in  Florida  is 
all  tommy-rot.  Here  it  is  the  middle  of 
winter,  no  ice  and  sleet,  no  storms,  nothing 
you  ever  read  about  to  fit  in  with  this 
game.  I'm  due  to  take  a  day  off  and  get 
away  from  it." 

He  flung  himself  into  the  house,  past 
the  surf -boat  that  filled  the  lower  floor, 
and  climbed  to  the  airy  living-room  above. 


DAY     OFF  26l 

Jim  Conklin,  mending  a  cast-net  on  the 
piazza,  called  cheerfully: 

"You  don't  look  happy,  Boy.  I  thought 
you'd  be  glad  to  see  some  of  your  gilt- 
edged  pals  again.  Did  they  try  to  borrow 
money  from  you,  or  did  they  make  fun  of 
your  clothes?" 

Brainard  growled  with  an  air  of  petu- 
lance absurdly  boyish  for  the  fine-condi- 
tioned bigness  of  him: 

"I'm  tired  of  shooting  life-lines  across 
a  pole  stuck  in  the  sand  and  pulling  my 
back-rivets  loose  in  the  boat  after  imagi- 
nary wrecks.  It's  mostly  dress  rehearsal 
in  this  shack.  And  we  sit  around  and  tell 
each  other  the  same  old  hard-luck  stories 
until  I'm  going  daffy." 

Conklin's  weather-beaten  face  twitched 
and  a  little  protesting  gesture  showed  that 
he  was  hurt.  Commander  of  a  big  pas- 
senger steamer  at  forty,  he  had  piled  her 
ashore  in  a  fog  three  years  before,  and  the 
iron  law  of  his  calling  had  thrown  him  "on 
the  beach"  without  another  chance.  Of- 
fered a  berth  as  watchman  on  the  com- 
pany's dock,  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  this  degradation  even  for  bread  and 


262          SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 

butter,  and  he  had  come  to  the  surface 
again  as  one  of  the  Tarpon  Inlet  crew. 

Brainard  saw  his  thoughtless  blunder 
and  quickly  added: 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  old  man.  You 
know  how  much  I  wish  I  could  help  you 
get  on  your  feet  again.  Forgive  me, 
won't  you?  I  haven't  any  real  troubles. 
Only  a  frost-bitten  pineapple  patch  that 
was  going  to  make  my  fortune.  But  it 
will  be  bearing  again  in  two  years,  and 
then  I'll  be  on  velvet.  Those  gay  visitors 
made  me  a  bit  restless,  that's  all,  just  as 
you  walk  the  beach  for  hours  after  a  Mor- 
gan liner  passes  close  in  shore." 

Bearded  Fritz  Wagenhals,  the  station- 
keeper,  broke  in  with  a  sardonic  chuckle: 

"It  is  the  same  way  when  we  haf  canned 
sausage  for  dinner.  I  think  myself  back 
in  Heidelberg  already,  where  I  haf  taken 
my  university  degree  twenty  years  ago. 
What  is  the  matter  mit  you,  Boy?  Was 
it  the  homesickness?" 

"No-o,  not  exactly,"  confessed  Brain- 
ard with  a  slightly  embarrassed  smile, 
"but  I  seem  to  be  the  only  one  of  the  three 
of  us  who  can  lift  the  curtain  and  get  a 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  263 

peep  at  what  he  used  to  be.  It's  my  day 
off,  and  with  your  permission,  Skipper 
Wagenhals,  I'm  going  to  break  my  vows 
and  trail  up  to  the  gorgeous  Coquina 
Beach  Hotel  for  dinner.  It  sounds  rash, 
doesn't  it?  No  sign  of  bad  weather,  is 
there?" 

The  Keeper  replied  with  a  shade  of 
doubt : 

"The  barometer  is  not  so  conservative 
as  I  would  like  to  see  him,  and  we  are  very 
due  to  catch  a  norther  already.  But  I 
don't  think  the  weather  will  break  before 
next  day  or  to-morrow.  You  haf  been  a 
good  boy,  and  you  will  haf  your  fling." 

Brainard  hauled  a  steamer-trunk  from 
beneath  his  cot  and  began  to  toss  out  ap- 
parel which  had  been  hidden  therein  for 
two  long  years.  He  held  up  a  dinner  coat 
and  caressed  it,  rubbed  a  pair  of  patent- 
leather  ties  with  a  bunch  of  cotton  waste, 
and  made  obeisance  to  a  crackling  shirt- 
bosom.  Memories  crowded  back,  and  the 
smash  of  his  high  hopes  of  fortune  was 
forgotten.  Ashley  Brainard  was  among 
his  own  again,  a  famous  stroke  of  the 
Varsity  eight,  counting  a  host  of  young 


264          SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 

men  and  maidens  among  his  friends  and 
admirers. 

His  mad  impulse  sent  a  flutter  of  ex- 
citement through  the  station.  The  surf- 
men  crowded  around  and  were  eager  to 
help  their  butterfly  emerge  from  his 
cocoon.  Fritz  Wagenhals  said,  as  he 
picked  up  the  shirt  with  reverent  care: 

"It  is  a  privilege  if  you  allow  me  the 
buttons  to  put  in.  I  once  wore  him  every 
night.  My  Gott,  that  was  so  long  ago! 
Also  it  is  good  manners  here  to  eat  mit 
your  knife,  but  not  so  at  the  Coquina 
Beach  Hotel." 

The  bustle  aroused  lanky  Bill  Stebbins, 
who  was  sleeping  outside  in  the  sand. 
He  hurried  in  to  offer  aid  and  counsel : 

"Dad  burn  it,  I  was  onst  sheriff  o'  Dade 
County,  Brainard,  an'  I  reckon  I  got  a 
right  smart  pull  yit.  If  you  git  pinched 
fob  diso'derly  conduct,  raise  a  yell,  an* 
I'll  come  a-runnin'." 

When  Brainard  announced  that  he  had 
no  intention  of  dressing  in  the  station  the 
disappointment  was  so  evident  that  he 
yielded  to  the  clamor,  and  consented  to 
array  himself  for  what  Fritz  Wagenhals 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  265 

called  "a  little  drill,  to  see  if  you  are  all- 
ship-shape-put  together,  mit  your  standin' 
riggin'  taut." 

These  embarrassments  delayed  the  de- 
parture until  late  in  the  afternoon. 

In  his  one  decent  suit  of  blue  serge, 
which  had  been  lovingly  pressed  by  the 
station  cook,  Brainard  swung  his  luggage 
as  if  it  were  as  light  as  his  heart.  He 
turned  once  to  look  at  the  red-roofed  sta- 
tion nestling  close  to  the  sand-dunes,  and 
for  a  moment  felt  as  if  he  were  playing 
the  traitor  to  those  loyal  big-hearted  com- 
rades of  his.  Every  one  of  them  had 
fought  with  adverse  fortune,  and,  beaten 
back,  met  the  odds  with  smiling  faces. 
He  was  the  youngest  of  the  crew  and  the 
pineapple  plantation  would  yet  release 
him  from  his  chosen  bondage.  On  this 
"day  off"  he  ought  to  be  back  in  the  clear- 
ing by  the  lagoon,  "bossing"  his  one  la- 
borer, but  he  looked  ahead,  and  his  young 
blood  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  glimpsing 
his  own  world  again. 

Northward  from  the  station  the  coast 
swept  seaward  in  a  bold  curve  which  ended 
in  a  low  point  over  which  the  breakers 


266  SURFMAN     BRAINARD's 

played  in  spring-tides.  Just  beyond  the 
Point,  Brainard  came  to  the  Inlet  and 
crossed,  dry-shod,  the  passage  between 
ocean  and  lagoon  which  had  carried  a  ten- 
foot  channel  three  months  before.  Now 
he  could  see,  three  miles  to  the  northward, 
the  long  pier  and  the  clustered  roofs  of 
the  great  hotel  buildings.  He  had  often 
come  thus  far  on  patrol,  but  had  always 
gazed  at  the  glittering  resort  as  forbidden 
ground  until  he  should  regain  his  rightful 
place  among  these  pleasure-seekers. 

Soon  he  passed  through  a  noble  avenue 
arched  with  palms,  and  came  to  lawns  that 
almost  lipped  the  sea.  After  the  smart- 
ing dazzle  of  sand  and  ocean,  this  lush, 
green  vista  was  like  cold  water  to  a  thirsty 
man.  Parties  of  golfers  were  drifting 
across  the  background;  white  and  fluffy 
gowns  gleamed  in  the  shrubbery.  But 
when  the  wayfarer  advanced  to  the  long 
hotel  piazza  the  smartly  voluble  groups 
of  men  and  women  made  him  unexpect- 
edly timorous.  Obtaining  a  room,  he 
slipped  through  the  crowded  and  colorful 
corridor  to  the  nearest  elevator,  oblivious 
that  more  than  one  woman  turned  to  look 


DAY     OFF  267 

after  the  stalwart  youth  whose  handsome 
face  was  so  darkly  burned  and  whose 
wholesome  vigor  was  no  veneer  laid  on 
after  a  wearing  season  in  club-land. 

Brainard  felt  more  like  himself  when 
he  was  dressed  and  had  tenderly  absorbed 
the  cocktail  whose  perfections  had  haunted 
his  long  walk.  He  swung  into  the  dining- 
room  as  if  he  owned  it,  and  chose  a  table 
facing  the  doors  where  he  could  view  the 
grand  entrance  of  the  actors  in  this  ex- 
travaganza. Three  young  women  near 
him  were  chattering  of  spring  Sittings  to 
Lenox  and  Westchester,  and  of  summer 
pilgrimages  to  Newport  and  abroad.  He 
heard  familiar  names  of  people  he  had 
once  known.  Soon  a  hand  fell  upon  his 
shoulder  and  he  looked  up  to  see  the 
chubby  face  of  his  classmate  "Toodles" 
Brown,  who  fairly  roared : 

"By  all  the  gods !  It  is  Ashley  Brain- 
ard. You  dear  old  fool!  Have  you  been 
dead  or  in  jail  or  did  you  just  float  in 
with  the  tide?  Of  course  I'll  sit  down.  I 
haven't  seen  you  since  we  sailed  my 
schooner  for  the  Atlantic  Cup  three  sum- 
mers ago.  Explain  yourself." 


268  SURFMAN      BRAINARD's 

Brainard  held  the  hand  that  had 
gripped  his  and  gazed  with  speechless  joy 
into  the  beaming  features  of  "Toodles" 
Brown.  Then  the  surfman  grinned  as  he 
said: 

"Good  old  Toodles!  Why,  I  have  a 
cottage  just  down  the  beach  beyond  the 
Point.  I'm  too  darned  exclusive  to  mix 
up  with  this  herd  of  get-rich-quick  million- 
aires and  gilded  loafers  like  your  fat  self." 

"Living  down  the  beach  in  a  cottage," 
gasped  Mr.  Brown.  "I've  been  here  two 
seasons  and  I  swear  I  know  every  cottager 
on  the  island.  I  think  you're  a  blessed  old 
liar.  Tell  me  all  about  yourself,  Ashley. 
You've  given  us  all  the  cold  shake,  you 
know." 

Brainard  explained  with  a  boyish  laugh : 

"Well,  you  know  I  was  down  here 
shooting  through  Christmas  vacation  of 
Senior  year,  and  I  got  the  pineapple  bee 
in  my  bonnet.  There  were  millions  in  it, 
on  paper.  But  Dad  wanted  me  to  cuddle 
down  at  a  desk  in  town.  I  stood  it  for 
a  year  and  you  remember  how  I  cussed. 
Then  I  said,  'The  glad  free  life  under  the 
palms  for  mine,' — bucked  clean  over  the 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  269 

traces,  and  bolted.  I  was  beginning  to 
dream  of  counting  my  coin,  when  one 
night  in  January  the  thermometer  slid 
three  degrees  too  low,  and,  bang,  what  a 
difference  in  the  morning !  It  was  a  case 
of  pineapple  f  rappe.  I  was  almost  broke, 
but  I  couldn't  throw  up  the  sponge,  and 
last  fall  there  was  an  opening  at  Uncle 
Sam's  life-saving  station  for  a  strong  lad 
used  to  fussing  around  the  water.  And 
there  I  am  drawing  my  little  old  forty  a 
month  and  proud  of  it,  until  my  new  crop 
comes  in.  But,  oh,  Toodles,  I  am  glad  to 
see  you,  and  for  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  all 
the  news  about  everybody!  I  never  could 
write  letters.  And  I'm  a  God-forsaken 
exile." 

Chubby  Mr.  Brown  was  too  agitated  to 
think  of  gossip  as  he  blurted: 

"You're  clean  crazy,  plumb  dippy.  Let 
me  stake  you  till  your  ship  comes  in  loaded 
with  pineapples.  Ash,  come  back  with 
me.  I'm  planning  a  six  months'  cruise  to 
the  Mediterranean,  and  I've  simply  got 
to  have  you.  It's  sandy  of  you  and  all 
that,  but  it's  silly  pride  to  think  you  must 
bury  yourself  down  here  until  you  win 


270  SURFMAN     BRAINARD     S 

out.  Let  the  cunning  little  pineapple 
plants  work  for  you  while  you  come  back 
where  you  belong.  You  a  life-saver  1  It's 
absurd!" 

"They  are  all  better  men  than  I  in  our 
crew,"  said  Brainard  slowly,  "and  it's  a 
clean,  simple,  husky  life,  and  I  never  was 
so  fit.  But — well,  I  wish  I  hadn't  taken 
this  day  off .  It  hurts  a  little  to  mix  up 
with  this  sort  of  thing.  No,  I  can't  bor- 
row money,  even  from  you.  To-night  I 
go  back  to  my  cot  and  corn-beef  hash. 
But  let's  go  it  while  the  evening's  young." 

This  suggestion  made  Mr.  Brown 
brighten  and  take  heart.  After  dinner 
they  strolled  on  the  quarter  mile  of  piazza 
facing  the  moonlit  sea,  and  the  scent  of 
tropical  flowers  hung  heavy  around  them. 
"Toodles"  Brown  was  anxious  to  have 
Brainard  meet  what  he  called  "the  youth 
and  beauty  of  our  set,"  but  his  chum 
asked  him  to  walk  first  as  far  as  the  beach. 

The  pier  was  almost  deserted,  for  the 
wind  was  rising  and  a  fine  spray  filled  the 
air  with  chilling  dampness.  Brainard 
looked  at  the  sky  with  a  surfman's  inter- 
ested scrutiny.  The  moon  was  dodging 


DAY     OFF  271 

among  fast-driving  clouds  and  the  surf 
was  beginning  to  boom  on  the  beach  with 
a  heavy,  sullen  note.  He  recalled  the  sta- 
tion-keeper's warning  of  a  "norther,"  but 
dismissed  it  because  the  lonely  red-roofed 
cottage  seemed  half  a  world  away.  Silent 
for  a  little  while,  when  he  spoke  it  was 
with  odd  and  painful  effort : 

"Have  you — have  you  heard  anything 
of  Marion  Shaw?  I — I  m-mean  Mrs. 
Westervelt?  Is  she  well  and — and 
happy?" 

Brown  chewed  his  cigar  for  a  moment 
before  he  responded : 

"That  is  just  what  I  hoped  you  might 
want  to  talk  about  when  we  came  out  here 
by  ourselves,  Ashley.  I  didn't  want  to 
open  the  subject,  you  know.  Yes,  I  saw 
her  just  before  she  sailed  for  Italy  two 
months  ago.  She  went  alone,  old  man. 
Westervelt's  a  beast.  I  don't  know  what 
she  went  through  with  him,  but  they've 
made  a  clean  break  of  it  for  good.  She 
didn't  confide  in  me  to  any  extent.  But 
we  talked  old  times,  and  after  a  while, 
well,  she  asked  me  about  you,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  tell  her.  I  didn't  even  know 


272  SURFMAN     BRAINARD     S 

where  you  were.  And — hem — she  wasn't 
looking  at  me  at  all,  and  she  wasn't  even 
talking  to  me  when  she  said  as  if  she  were 
thinking  out  loud : 

"  Tm  so  lonely.  Oh,  if  I  could  see  him 
just  once!' " 

Brainard  leaned  over  the  railing  and 
stared  into  the  troubled  sea  as  he  almost 
whispered : 

"Is  she  going  to  get  a — get  a " 

"Yes,  after  waiting  two  years.  Then 
she'll  be  free  to " 

"And  you're  going  to  the  Mediterra- 
nean in  the  spring?"  muttered  Brainard. 
"God,  if  I  could  only  see  her !  Two  years, 
you  say?  If  I  could  only  see  her!" 

Brown  laid  an  arm  across  his  chum's 
big  shoulder  and  said  coaxingly: 

"You  don't  want  to  meet  any  of  these 
girls  to-night,  do  you?  We'll  have  a  good 
old  talk  in  my  rooms  later,  and  I'll  have 
you  booked  for  my  cruise  before  we  part 
company.  There's  a  gilded  temple  of 
chance  back  here  on  the  lagoon  where  the 
little  ball  rolls  round  and  round,  and  I 
have  a  strong  hunch  that  the  luck  is  run- 
ning to  the  black,  and  also  dallying  with 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  273 

my  pet  numbers,  fourteen-seventeen- 
twenty  down  the  middle  row.  Let's 
amble  over  and  see  what's  doing  in  the 
roulette  mart." 

Brainard  welcomed  the  diversion,  for 
his  thoughts  were  all  upheaved.  When 
they  entered  the  "Casino,"  the  busy  green 
tables,  the  rattle  of  ivory  chips,  and  the 
tingling  excitement  pervading  the  eager 
throng  of  men  and  women  awoke  in  the 
exile  a  gambling  passion  that  had  long 
lain  dormant.  Without  conscious  act  he 
found  himself  fingering  his  little  roll  of 
bills  while  he  watched  "Toodles"  Brown 
buy  a  staggering  pile  of  five-dollar  chips. 
Fighting  with  his  desire,  Brainard  idly 
chose  numbers  here  and  there,  and  trem- 
bled when  he  saw  his  empty  choices  win- 
ning time  after  time. 

The  whirr  of  the  ball  as  it  sped  round 
the  edge  of  its  gleaming  disk,  lost  head- 
way, hesitated  for  a  heart-breaking  in- 
stant and  fell  into  its  destined  compart- 
ment, was  fascinating  beyond  words. 
Presently  a  florid  dowager  withdrew  with 
a  gesture  of  peevish  disappointment,  leav- 
ing vacant  a  seat  near  the  middle  of  her 


274  SURFMAN     BRAINARD'S 

table.  "Toodles"  Brown  was  profoundly 
absorbed  in  his  own  gloomy  run  of  luck, 
and  paid  no  heed  to  Brainard's  modest  in- 
vestment of  twenty-five  counters  worth  a 
dollar  each. 

The  life-saver  had  little  expectation  of 
winning.  This  was  a  distraction,  an  ex- 
citement, a  part  of  his  rare  "day  off,"  and 
he  hung  breathless  on  the  surging  uncer- 
tainty of  every  play.  He  noticed  that 
"Toodles"  Brown  had  forsaken  his  "pet 
numbers  down  the  middle  row,"  and  with 
a  reckless  impulse  he  placed  five  dollars 
on  each  of  the  trio.  The  croupier  gathered 
in  the  stake  as  callously  as  if  a  large  part 
of  a  surfman's  monthly  wage  had  not 
been  lost  in  this  heady  plunge. 

"  I  think  a  zero  is  about  due,  and 
it  stands  for  my  prospects  all  right," 
thought  Brainard  as  he  slid  five  chips  into 
the  space  around  the  "single  0." 

The  purring  ball  was  uncommonly  coy, 
and  Brainard  felt  his  heart  thumping 
while  it  wavered  undecided.  When  it  nes- 
tled into  its  chosen  nook,  the  croupier  sung 
out: 

"The  single  0  has  it." 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  275 

He  pushed  a  hundred  and  eighty  dol- 
lars in  chips  toward  Brainard.  The  young 
man  flushed  through  his  tan.  A  wild  hope 
had  flared  in  his  heart.  He  resumed  his 
play  with  tautened  nerves  and  a  softened 
light  in  his  frank  eyes.  Belated  luck  must 
fall  along  the  "middle  row"  he  thought, 
and  he  covered  Brown's  "pet  numbers" 
with  chips,  in  the  squares,  on  the  dividing 
lines  and  in  the  corners.  "Seventeen" 
won,  and  he  gathered  in  his  spoils  without 
trying  to  count  them.  Then  he  threw  his 
chips  at  random,  on  numbers  and  on 
colors,  and  the  blind  goddess  was  strange- 
ly kind  almost  with  every  turn  of  the 
wheel. 

"Toodles"  Brown  ceased  playing  and 
looked  at  his  chum  wide-eyed.  Brainard 
was  exchanging  some  stacks  of  chips  for 
bills,  and  others  for  chips  of  higher  values, 
until  he  was  staking  the  limit  allowed  on 
a  number. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  call  it  off!"  whis- 
pered Brown.  "It  can't  last  any  longer. 
Pull  out  while  you're  ahead,  and  let  me 
count  it  for  you.  You've  nearly  two  thou- 
sand here." 


276          SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 

Brainard  brushed  him  aside  and  fever- 
ishly sputtered : 

"Don't  bother  me.  I'm  playing  for  the 
biggest  stake  in  the  world.  This  is  my 
day." 

He  snatched  a  fat  roll  of  yellow-backed 
bills  from  Brown,  and  tossed  it  across  the 
table  to  the  splotch  of  red.  Presently  the 
croupier  droned : 

"Twenty-four  wins,  and  the  red." 

The  cashier  counted  Brainard's  stake, 
piled  up  bills  of  equal  value  and  shoved 
the  bundle  across  the  table.  With  tears 
in  his  voice  Brown  begged  him  to  quit  as 
Brainard  made  one  more  winning  plunge 
and  turned  to  his  friend  with  a  hoarse 
cry: 

"I'm  through.  Damn  it,  come  on! 
Let's  count  the  plunder.  I've  won  my 
freedom." 

A  few  moments  later  Brainard  divided 
somewhat  more  than  five  thousand  dollars 
into  two  rolls  and  stuffed  them  into  his 
trousers  pockets.  As  the  two  young  men 
passed  out  of  doors,  they  were  startled  by 
the  uproar  of  the  wind.  The  palm  crests 
were  whipping  to  tatters  with  sibilant 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  277 

lament,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  their 
flying  fragments.  From  the  beach  came 
the  great  call  of  a  raging  surf  and  the 
sting  of  spray  driven  inland.  Once,  dur- 
ing his  cyclonic  hours  in  the  "Casino," 
Brainard  had  heard  the  rising  storm  cry 
over  the  roof,  but  its  summons  had  been 
unheeded.  It  had  vaguely  reminded  him 
of  duty,  but  even  now  he  thought  only  of 
his  lawless  wealth  as  he  strode  toward  the 
beach  while  "Toodles"  Brown  galloped 
clumsily  in  his  wake. 

When  they  passed  beyond  the  shelter- 
ing lee  of  the  last  hotel  building,  the  might 
of  the  "norther"  buff eted  them  breathless. 
Brainard  staggered  out  to  the  pier  and 
clutched  the  nearest  railing  lest  he  be 
blown  overboard.  The  rain  of  spray  was 
drenching  his  evening  clothes  as  Brown 
tugged  at  his  coat  and  strove  to  pull  him 
toward  the  hotel. 

"Let  me  cool  off,"  shouted  Brainard 
above  the  tumult.  "I'm  going  home  with 
you,  I  tell  you,  Toodles.  I'm  going  to  the 
Mediterranean  with  you.  I'm  going  to 
Italy  with  you,  God  bless  her!  I'm  going 
back  where  I  belong,  and  the  pineapples 


278          SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 

can  go  to  hell.  There's  five  thousand  in 
my  clothes." 

Brown  thumped  him  on  the  back  and 
roared : 

"Of  course  you  are,  and  you  deserve 
your  luck.  But  if  you  love  me,  come  out 
of  this.  I'm  a  wet  rag  and  you're  worse." 

For  reply  Brainard  fought  his  way  out 
along  the  railing  of  the  pier,  and  gloried 
in  the  night.  It  matched  his  own  mood. 
Like  the  sea,  he  had  broken  the  bonds  that 
for  so  long  had  held  him  tamed  and  stag- 
nant. He  was  drunk  with  the  wine  of 
life,  and  the  storm  could  not  drag  his 
whirling  thoughts  back  to  the  red-roofed 
station  beyond  the  Point. 

Then  the  helpless  Brown  yelled  in  his 
ear: 

"Turn  around,  Ash.  Over  here  to  the 
north'ard.  Great  Scott,  what  can  we  do?" 

Brainard  jumped  to  the  note  of  alarm 
in  the  appeal.  The  moonlight  still  spat- 
tered across  the  white-fanged  water. 
Driving  along  southward,  close  in  shore, 
they  saw  a  schooner,  now  a  somber  blotch, 
now  outlined  against  the  smother  that 
flung  itself  at  her.  She  seemed  to  be 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  379 

coming  head  on  for  the  pier.  The  picture 
seared  itself  into  Brainard's  very  soul.  It 
hurled  him  back  from  his  glad  world  re- 
gained to  the  station  where  he  ought  to  be. 
But  he  waited  to  see  if  she  could  clear  the 
pier.  In  an  agony  of  impatience  he 
crawled  out  where  the  sea  was  breaking 
clean  over  the  structure,  far  beyond  where 
Brown  dared  to  follow. 

He  watched  the  doomed  vessel  wallow 
as  she  fled  before  the  "norther,"  watched 
her  lunge  past  the  end  of  the  pier,  hardly 
more  than  a  hundred  yards  away.  By  the 
rifting  moonlight  he  could  see  that  her 
decks  were  a  tangle  of  wreckage,  her 
headsails  gone  or  flying  in  ribbons.  She 
was  pelting  straight  down  the  coast,  help- 
less to  claw  off  shore,  helpless  to  heave  to. 

This  was  what  Brainard  realized  as  he 
groaned : 

"She's  heading  straight  for  the  Point, 
and  she  can't  be  handled  to  clear  it.  Or 
they  may  be  hoping  to  fetch  the  Inlet  and 
get  inside,  and  they  don't  know  it's  choked 
up." 

As  he  ran  toward  the  beach,  Brainard 
wondered  how  he  could  have  forgotten. 


280  SURFMAN     BRAINARD's 

Why  had  not  the  first  note  of  the  storm 
called  him  home? 

He  waved  a  wild  gesture  of  farewell  to 
his  friend,  and  tore  down  the  boardwalk 
promenade,  past  the  great  hotel  whose 
hundreds  of  windows  were  ablaze  with 
light.  Inside  he  glimpsed  many  dancers, 
and  an  eddying  gust  picked  up  the  strains 
of  the  orchestra  and  brought  faintly  to 
him  the  taunting  sweetness  of  a  waltz 
song,  "Love  Comes  Like  a  Summer 
Sigh." 

It  was  Surfman  Brainard  of  the  Tar- 
pon Inlet  Station  that  plunged  off  the 
end  of  the  walk  into  clogging  sand,  for 
the  tide  had  covered  all  the  beach,  and  he 
must  toil  up  as  far  even  as  the  gullied 
dunes.  He  kicked  off  his  hampering 
patent-leather  ties,  threw  his  coat  after 
them,  and  limped  over  driftwood  and 
gnarled  palmetto  roots,  falling,  scram- 
bling, swearing  in  a  frenzy  of  eagerness 
to  join  his  comrades.  The  sand  whirled  in 
blinding  drifts,  and  he  rubbed  his  eyes  to 
look  for  the  laboring  schooner  which  van- 
ished in  a  little  while  as  if  she  were  blotted 
out. 


DAY     OFF  28l 

He  remembered  that  somewhere  a  road 
led  back  into  the  tangled  live-oak  and 
palmetto  hammock  beyond  the  sand-hills. 
With  a  shout  of  joy  he  dove  through  a 
gash  in  the  tufted  hillocks,  and  his  bare 
feet  found  a  wagon  track  in  firmer 
ground.  Now  the  storm  wailed  overhead, 
but  in  darkness  that  was  almost  rayless  it 
twisted  limbs  from  the  tortured  trees  and 
tossed  them  in  Brainard's  path;  it  flung 
the  meshed  creepers  across  his  way  to  trip 
him  headlong. 

"She's  bound  to  fetch  up  a  long  way 
this  side  the  station,"  he  grunted,  "and 
the  patrol  may  be  at  the  other  end  of  his 
beat.  And  those  poor  devils  can't  live 
long  in  the  sea  that's  smashing  over  the 
Point." 

Then  he  thanked  God  for  the  fitness  of 
wind  and  limb  which  had  come  of  long 
months  of  hardy  drill  and  plain  living,  for 
the  Inlet  was  just  ahead  as  he  came  out  on 
the  roaring  beach.  He  looked  seaward 
for  a  rocket,  and  shoreward  for  a  signal 
from  the  patrol.  No  light  showed  any- 
where in  the  gray  night. 

He  splashed  across  the  tide-swept  bar, 


282          SURFMAN    BRAINARD'S 

and  when  the  bones  of  an  ancient  wreck 
loomed  close  by,  he  knew  he  was  within 
a  mile  of  home.  A  dark  smudge  moved 
against  the  white  sand-hills,  and  he  fell 
into  the  arms  of  Jim  Conklin  on  patrol. 

"Schooner's  coming  ashore,"  gasped 
Brainard.  "She  passed  the  head  pier, 
heading  straight  down  and  helpless.  She 
was  in  distress  for  fair.  If  she  hasn't 
come  this  far,  she's  piled  up  on  the  Point. 
I'll  go  to  the  station  while  you  find  her 
and  signal  us." 

Conklin  said  not  a  word,  but  made  a 
bull-like  lunge  against  the  storm.  When 
Brainard  had  roused  out  the  crew,  Fritz 
Wagenhals  shouted: 

"Our  boat  is  no  good  for  us  on  the 
Point.  Get  out  mit  the  gun." 

Six  men  and  the  cook  stormed  up  the 
beach  with  the  life-gun  and  tackle,  and  as 
they  toiled  through  the  heavy  sand  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind,  Brainard  was  near  col- 
lapse. But  he  rallied  when  they  crept  out 
toward  the  Point,  and  a  red  Coston  light 
sputtered  and  flared  ahead.  Then  Jim 
Conklin  ran  back  to  them  waving  his  torch 
and  crying : 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  283 

"She's  in  the  breakers  on  the  weather 
side  of  the  Point.  The  Boy  guessed  right. 
Breaking  up  fast,  she  is.  Hustle  up  the 
gun." 

When  they  sighted  the  stranded  schoon- 
er even  Brainard,  who  had  foreseen  her 
plight,  was  amazed  at  the  quick  fury  of 
her  destruction.  The  black  lump  of  her 
hulk  lay  in  a  surf  which  broke  sheer  over 
it,  and  the  stump  of  her  mainmast  rolled 
in  appealing  gestures  to  the  sky.  The 
first  shot  was  fired  dead  against  the  wind, 
and  the  line  fell  short.  A  second  and  a 
third  failed,  and  they  did  not  even  know 
whether  life  was  aboard  the  wreck.  At 
last  a  quartering  shot  sent  the  line  across 
the  schooner,  and  there  came  feeble 
twitches,  electric  pulsations  that  sent  their 
message  to  the  men  ashore  as  if  hands  had 
been  clasped  across  the  boiling  inferno  of 
white  water. 

The  wreck  was  breaking  up  fast.  Her 
timbers  strewed  the  beach,  and  drifted 
menacingly  in  the  surf.  But  with  slow, 
halting  effort,  the  whip-line  followed  the 
slender  cord  of  the  projectile,  and  after 
that  the  heavy  hawser  trailed  out  into  the 


284  SURFMAN     BRAINARDS 

night  until  the  jerky  signal  came  ashore 
that  all  was  made  fast.  The  surfmen 
tailed  on  and  the  breeches-buoy  was 
dragged  shoreward.  At  length  a  sod- 
den shape,  coughing  and  groaning,  was 
pulled  up  on  the  sand  by  the  men  who 
rushed  among  the  combers.  Four  more 
trips  the  breeches-buoy  made,  and  three 
more  sailors  were  fetched  ashore  alive. 
The  last  of  these  was  asked  how  many 
were  left  aboard  and  he  gasped: 

"Nobody  but  the  skipper,  an'  he's 
hangin'  on  by  his  toenails." 

On  shore  they  waited  in  vain  for  a  sig- 
nal, and  none  came.  It  was  more  omi- 
nous when  the  hawser  slackened.  It  was 
read  as  a  death-warrant  when  the  hawser 
yielded  to  the  tautening  heave  of  the  surf - 
men,  yielded  with  sickening  ease  and  came 
washing  and  writhing  in  to  them,  hand 
over  hand,  broken  adrift  from  the  wreck. 
The  little  group  on  the  thundering  beach 
stared  across  the  ghastly  water  at  the  dis- 
solving lump  of  the  schooner,  knowing  by 
instinct  that  it  would  be  foolishly  futile  to 
shoot  another  line  seaward.  They  waited, 
and  it  was  all  that  they  could  do. 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  285 

To  young  Brainard  this  suspense  was 
more  killing  than  all  the  stress  through 
which  he  had  furiously  toiled.  No  light, 
no  sign  of  life,  nothing  to  tell  whether  or 
not  death  had  won  in  the  home  stretch! 

A  rescued  seaman,  battered  and  spent, 
cried  out  from  where  he  lay  on  the  sand: 

"Matt  Martin  his  name  is.  The  Lucy 
B.  was  the  vessel's.  Coal  to  Havana. 
Mate  washed  overboard  last  night.  He's 
a  good  skipper,  is  Martin;  looks  like  that 
youngster  in  the  white  shirt  there." 

"We'll  find  him  at  high- water  mark  in  a 
day  or  so,"  bellowed  Fritz  Wagenhals. 
"My  Gott,  I  wish — no,  the  boat  is  no  good 
here." 

The  young  man  shot  his  fist  seaward. 

"I'll  try  to  swim  out  with  a  line  if  you'll 
let  me." 

"No,  you  don't,  you  tamn  fool  Boy!" 
the  keeper  shouted  back. 

Brainard  doubled  along  the  edge  of  the 
beach  like  a  hound  baffled  by  a  lost  trail. 
He  was  almost  beside  himself  with  bitter 
anger  at  the  storm  that  it  should  have 
wrought  this  cruel  climax.  It  had  come 
as  a  tremendous  revelation  to  him  that  he 


286  SURFMAN     BRAINARD     S 

could  help  to  win  this  great  fight  against 
wind  and  sea.  His  splendid  strength  had 
some  place  in  the  world  of  deeds  after  all. 
Fierce  joy  and  thanksgiving  had  thrilled 
his  every  fiber  that  in  this  hour  he  was  per- 
mitted to  be  one  of  the  Tarpon  Inlet  crew. 
Now  to  be  robbed  of  the  life  of  the  cap- 
tain of  the  vessel,  to  stand  like  wooden 
men  and  let  him  die  who  had  stayed  by 
his  ship  for  duty's  sake — this  was  more 
than  profoundly  sad,  it  was  maddening. 
Blindly  scouting  a  little  way  up  the 
beach,  Brainard  glimpsed  a  bit  of  wreck- 
age rearing  shoreward,  carried  beyond  the 
other  watchers  by  some  freak  of  the  un- 
dertow. It  looked  like  all  the  other  sorry 
fragments  of  the  schooner,  but  a  second 
glance  showed  him  a  white  patch  gleam- 
ing against  the  black  timber.  It  might  be 
the  tattered  foam,  but  a  wild  hope  halted 
him  in  his  tracks,  and  he  stood  staring  at 
the  tumbling  mass.  The  white  patch  did 
not  vanish,  it  seemed  to  move  as  if  writh- 
ing against  its  background,  and  now  he 
was  sure  he  saw  it  move.  To  wait  an 
instant  longer  was  to  see  the  bit  of  wreck- 
age pounded  in  the  surf  as  by  Titan 


As  he  rose  the  jagged  I  hither  WYI.V  hurled  straight  at  him. 


D  A  Y      O  F  F  287 

sledge-hammers.  He  tore  into  the  first 
line  of  foam,  head  down,  arms  extended. 
A  few  tripping  strides,  and  a  wall  of 
water  crashed  down  upon  him,  solid  and 
resistless.  Stunned  as  he  was  he  dove  by 
instinct,  and  caught  breath  beyond  the 
breaker.  The  fragment  of  wreckage  to 
which  something  was  clinging  rode  a  few 
yards  beyond  him.  Again  he  was  flung 
down  and  tossed  shoreward,  and  again  he 
dove  with  fast  weakening  effort,  nor 
could  he  see  that  behind  him  the  other 
surfmen  were  struggling  to  reach  him  in 
a  hard-gripped  human  chain. 

As  he  rose,  the  jagged  timber  was 
hurled  straight  at  him  like  a  projectile. 
He  tried  to  dodge  it,  flinging  out  an  arm 
to  clutch  at  something  white  half  wrapped 
round  it.  A  broken  nail  or  bolt  caught 
his  clothing,  and  dragged  him  headlong. 
While  he  threw  his  arms  about  the  timber 
he  felt  the  rags  of  his  trousers  tear  loose, 
and  he  shook  himself  free  of  the  deadly 
hold.  He  was  no  more  than  conscious 
that  something  stirred  as  if  alive  beneath 
his  shifting  grip.  Presently  the  surfmen 
cheered  as  they  hauled  ashore  the  broken 


288  SURFMAN     BRAINARD's 

beam  from  which  they  had  to  pry  loose 
two  half-naked,  water-logged,  but  living 
men. 

Day  was  breaking  when  the  crew  of  the 
schooner,  a  full  muster  roll,  were  helped 
into  the  station.  The  weary  surf  men  gave 
their  bunks  to  the  rescued,  and  the  black 
cook  made  strong  coffee  and  corned-beef 
hash  with  incredible  speed.  Brainard  fell 
on  the  floor  like  a  dead  man.  But  he 
could  not  sleep,  for  the  night  had  been  too 
crowded  with  racking  events.  His  hurts 
and  exhaustion  were  forgotten  as  the 
evening  at  the  Coquina  Beach  Hotel  came 
back  to  him,  dimly  at  first,  then  focusing 
more  sharply,  as  if  he  were  recalling 
things  far  distant  in  time  and  place. 

Amid  this  welter  of  impressions  loomed 
the  fact  that  magically  the  means  had  been 
provided  for  him  to  go  back  to  his  own, 
and  more  than  this,  to  see  her  whose  mes- 
sage had  come  as  from  the  dead  awak- 
ened. As  if  in  a  dream,  he  fumbled  for 
his  trousers  pockets.  Then  it  came  to 
him  that  he  had  been  forced  to  put  on 
Jim  Conklin's  oilskin  breeches  while  that 
comrade  was  half  dragging  him  home 


DAY     OFF  289 

from  the  wreck.  He  dully  wondered 
why,  until  beneath  the  oilskins  he  found 
a  waistband  and  a  few  sodden  rags,  all 
that  was  left  of  his  evening  clothes. 
Pockets  were  gone,  and  with  them — 

"Five  thousand  dollars,"  he  muttered 
in  dazed,  stupid  fashion. 

Just  then  a  babbling  chatter  broke  from 
the  nearest  cot.  Brainard  raised  his  head 
and  saw  a  young  man,  no  older  than  him- 
self, sitting  up  and  feebly  swaying,  his 
wits  awry  for  the  moment  because  of  what 
he  had  suffered.  The  captain  of  the  lost 
schooner  wrung  his  hands  and  cried,  while 
the  tears  were  on  his  bruised  face : 

"No,  no,  I  tell  you,  the  Lucy  E.  was  not 
insured.  ...  I  named  her  after  you 
and  she  was  a  lucky  vessel.  .  .  .  Cut 
away  the  rags  o'  that  f  orestays'l,  and  we'll 
bend  on  somethin'  that  '11  hold.  .  .  . 
We've  got  to  heave  her  to,  I  tell  you. 
.  .  .  Five  thousand  dollars  clean  gone, 
all  I've  got  and  .  .  .  If  we  can  fetch 
Tarpon  Inlet  before  we  founder,  we  can 
get  inside.  .  .  .  The  Lucy  B.  gone 
to  pieces.  .  .  .  You're  a  liar.  .  .  . 
Why,  I  just  bought  out  old  man  Holter's 


290  SURFMAN      BRAINARDS 

share  last  voyage.  .  .  .  Five  thou- 
sand dollars,  all  in  the  Lucy  B.  .  .  . 
All  I've  got  and " 

Brainard  was  moved  to  pity,  then 
amazement,  that  in  this  fashion  he  should 
be  brought  face  to  face  with  a  tragedy  so 
very  like  his  own.  But  he  glimpsed  the 
fact,  and  was  ashamed  of  it,  that  he  would 
be  stirred  to  deeper  sympathy  for  the 
young  skipper  if  there  were  no  womanish 
wailing  over  his  loss.  And  then,  guilty 
and  remorseful,  Brainard  realized  that  his 
own  heart  was  full  of  sullen  repining, 
bitter  discontent  with  the  fate  that  had 
robbed  him  of  his  treasure  and  his  hopes, 
futile  outcry  against  his  forced  return  to 
the  life  of  the  station.  He,  then,  was 
wholly  lacking  in  that  very  fortitude 
which  he  wished  to  see  displayed  by  this 
broken,  fevered  sailor  in  the  cot,  whose 
misfortune  was,  by  far,  the  more  crush- 
ing. 

Brainard  crawled  stiffly  outside  to  be 
alone.  For  some  time  he  painfully  over- 
hauled his  surging  thoughts,  and  slowly 
there  faded  from  his  tired  young  face  the 
clouding  trouble  that  he  had  seen  mir- 


D  A  Y     O  F  F  391 

rored  in  the  face  of  the  boyish  captain. 
Then  he  said  aloud  as  if  it  were  a  ver- 
dict: 

"A  man  who  can't  take  his  medicine  is  a 
pretty  tough  spectacle,  isn't  he?  And  it 
was  all  a  dream,  yes,  all  a  dream — of 
money  I  didn't  earn,  and — and  of  a  girl 
I  can't  marry." 

He  looked  through  the  doorway,  saw 
Jim  Conklin  slip  over  to  the  captain's  cot 
and  stroke  the  hot  forehead,  and  heard 
him  say: 

"I  know  what  it  is,  old  man.  I've  been 
there  myself." 

The  touch  of  Conklin's  hand  seemed  to 
bring  the  skipper  to  himself.  His  slack- 
ened mouth  closed  with  the  snap  of  a  steel 
trap,  and  into  his  face  came  the  alert  and 
aggressive  look  of  an  unbeaten  man.  He 
smiled  up  at  Conklin  and  said  weakly: 

"I  must  have  been  a  little  upset  in  my 
top  story.  Was  I  talkin'  foolishness? 
Thank  God,  we're  still  alive  an'  kickin' 
strong.  I'm  all  right.  How  are  my  men? 
No  use  crying  over  spilt  milk,  is  there, 
shipmate?  How's  the  kid  that  yanked 
me  ashore?" 


292  SURFMAN     BRAINARD     S 

Brainard  went  to  his  side,  repeating  as 
if  he  were  thinking  aloud : 

"There's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk* 
I  dreamed  I  lost  five  thousand  dollars  last 
night." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered,  so  did  I," 
cheerfully  responded  the  skipper.  "But 
it  wasn't  no  dream  for  me.  It  won't  make 
a  bit  of  diif erence  a  hundred  years  from 
now,  will  it?  Vessel  a  total  loss,  but  I'm 
no  total  loss,  not  for  a  minute.  You  fished 
me  out,  and  thanks  for  a  neat  job,  for  I'm 
pretty  fond  of  just  livin'." 

Brainard  gripped  the  outstretched 
hand,  and  the  two  young  men  smiled  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Ashley  Brainard  was 
glad  that  he  had  found  a  man,  but  gladder 
was  he  that  he  had  found  himself.  For  in 
that  moment  the  life-saver  routed  all  his 
regrets,  as  he  turned  to  Jim  Conklin,  with 
vibrant  earnestness  and  shining  face : 

"I'm  mighty  glad  of  the  chance  to  stay 
here  for  a  while  among  you  men.  For 
I'm  pretty  fond  of  just  living,  Jim,  even 
if  my  dreams  can't  all  come  true." 


A     000036615     3 


